


Hell Sent, Heaven Bound

by ConsultingHound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A missing arm, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternative Afterlife, Angel John Watson, BAMF John, Case Fic, Fallen Angel Sherlock Holmes, I would apologise for my mildly high Sherlock being ooc but I'm not going to because I love him, John Watson is Fucking Done, Kidnapping, Likeness to the real Damien Russell (who I just found out is a person) is entirely accidental, M/M, Mike Stamford is still playing cupid, Mind Palace John Watson, Moriarty- because of course hes here, Mrs Hudson is here to help Mike with this, Murder in Heaven? It's more likely than you think, POV John Watson, Police Officer John Watson, Rating subject to change, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, Well as slow burn as I can go, briefest mention of self-mutilation eg wings being torn off, i am not a scientist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-07-07 19:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15915207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day.  He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls.  However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell.  Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been kicking around this idea for a while, and have finally decided to try and see if it will work as a fic. I have a few chapters written in rough to begin with but a fair warning before we begin, uploads may be slow (just started a new job, moved to a new city etc etc, life stuff, you get it). I do have an outline for the chapters though so I know vaguely how this should go.
> 
> Comments and questions are greatly appreciated!

John knew that something was up. 

He didn’t buy into the bullshit about premonitions or an angelic sixth sense.  He did however know that once you’d done this job for a while, there was a specific sinking sensation in your stomach that happened whenever you were about to encounter something Bad.  Capital B Bad.  Around this neighbourhood he was currently walking round, a resemblance of a 21st century London backstreet, he nearly always had that feeling and was nearly always right. 

It wasn’t like he had the best morning either.  Insomnia was a reoccurring problem since the war, something he’d been told was because of the change in surroundings but which he personally believed ran deeper.  He’d been home for going on a year now and still what little sleep he snatched was plagued with awful visions and a longing that had him in frustrated tears.  It was surprising then that he slept through his alarm and was only woken by a neighbour bashing on the thin adjoining walls telling him, in no uncertain terms, exactly what he would do if John did not switch it off.  Showering and dressing were a rushed job and he sprinted to work.  This turned out not to be worth it as, for the 214th time, he was told to walk the same beat he always did, look out for trouble, report anything suspicious, and for fuck’s sake John don’t do anything rash.  Bessy on the front desk raised her eyebrows for emphasis.  He could have laughed but merely saluted and swung back out the door. 

He should have laughed.  The last rash thing he did was sign up to be a war-healer.  What would become known as the biggest war to unfold in the afterlife since the Fall had broken out a week prior, and had developed from a mere skirmish to an out-and-out dogfight for people’s souls.  John knew he had to do _something_ and although his combat scores were good, his medical affinity was higher and he was placed on a front-line medical base, the natural limits on his powers weakened and his own strengths unleashed.  There was a certain high John rode throughout the war, even in the darkest times when the most heinous atrocities were committed, angels obliterated out of existence before his very eyes, because what he was doing was righteous, he was _right_ , and the feeling of power and strength that came from the enhancement of his abilities was overwhelming and exhilarating.  During the war, John felt he could do anything, be the angel he was destined to be.  A few times he even thought it might be the reason he was called into existence in the first place.

This was a thought which haunted him now, a mocking echo.  That time was over now.  He had to accept that fact.  He had to remind himself of that.  The war had been bloody and ruthless but the Council won in the end through the skin of their non-existent teeth.  The new rebellious fell and order was restored.  This did not mean everyone in John’s world was necessarily _good_ but they weren’t necessarily _evil_ either.  It was a delicate balancing act, one that had to be rigidly enforced.  One war was considered quite enough. 

Of course, John only found out these details later.  Four days before victory was declared, John was shot through the shoulder by the enemy, ripping straight through to his wing, and he spent much of the aftermath trapped in a Council recovery centre, spiralling with pain medication and fever.  The fact it was very difficult to _kill_ an angel did not necessarily mean it was difficult to harm one, as he was acutely aware.  His shoulder was patched together but reconstruction was only partial, and his wing was, for want of a better word, fucked beyond all measure.  What hurt more than the lack of flying ability though was the loss of his healing powers.  He retained some of them, but they would never reach his pre-war levels, never mind the strength he had in the glory days.  So at the end of his hospital stay, he was told he was lucky to still be in a physical form, lucky his soul had not been shattered on impact, and simply lucky to be alive.

He didn’t feel that lucky. 

When he was finally released from the centre, he took up digs in a flat with some other veterans, although slowly that had started emptying out as people moved on with their lives.  In order to enforce the peace, guard patrols and an actual justice system had been set in motion, and so John joined a unit as a temporary place-holder until he found another job.  This job had become a lot less temporary as the months wore on but John could barely bring himself to care.  It paid the bills.  It helped the Council.  It forced him to leave the bed-sit.  That was the most important thing right?

So here he was.  An over-tired and under-paid Junior Guard, with no real ambitions to rise higher in the ranks, walking a patrol he’d done practically every day since taking the job, bored out of his mind with nothing to fill his thoughts. 

And someone was tagging the High Council’s neighbourhood office building.

Fantastic.  The one thing worse than having nothing to do was having to do something. 

They looked like kids, teenagers at most, but that didn’t count for much in the afterlife; you could look like you were 16 but had been in existence for 412 years and had the attitude (and paperwork) to prove it.  Something about being dead gave people the irritating and hypocritical combination of being arrogant and reckless half the time, and pious and judgemental the other half.  It was probably something to do with the whole ‘It’s another chance’ thing but instead of making everyone better people, it was a fifty-fifty split on “I’m going to be a better person” and “Cool, no consequences, let’s see what lighter fluid tastes like”.

It does not taste good. 

He was going to yell something when the kids looked up and spotted him.  There was a slight pause as if they _genuinely_ considered staying and fighting him but all John had to do was raise an eyebrow and tilt his head slightly in a ‘ _seriously_?’ motion for them to take off running.  Yes he should probably arrest and question them but at the end of the day what would that achieve?  It was only a bit of graffiti, so let them run. 

And run they did.  Straight into someone waiting at the opposite end of the alley. 

Tall was John’s first impression.  The figure was stood, straight-backed, unflinching, which made him seem towering.  That and the ridiculous coat, a woollen, flowing, swishy coat.  His next impression was the phrase “Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” only for a moment before he remembered he was a professional on a job and he should not be checking out a shadowy stranger in an alleyway while he was trying to scare off some stupid kids.

When his professional brain set in, his impression of the stranger was ‘Oh Shit.’  Because there was a _reason_ the figure was shadowy.  The guy had solid black wings.  John almost hadn’t noticed them as they blended into the grime of the street and walls but they were there, rippling across the alley.  This only meant one thing and it came with a _load_ of paperwork. 

He, whoever he was, was a Fallen Angel. 

A Fallen Angel not in Hell. 

John knew logically he should be feeling a certain amount of fear at this point, but overriding that was mild curiosity and a need to repress the urge to sigh.  How the hell had a Fallen managed to get back into Council limits?  And what was he supposed to do with him now he was here?  

Luckily for John he had time for these thoughts as the other occupants of the alley were busy.  “Going somewhere?” rumbled the Fallen’s deep voice. 

The teens didn’t even have a time to stammer a response before a mist descended over them and they fainted on the floor.  He’d never seen Sleep mist up close before, it’s use strictly prohibited and technically illegal for anyone not in the Guards.  However, it was a move that fixed the lesser problems in John’s life. 

The other angel stepped forward into a patch of light and John... looked a little.  Just a _little_.  Riotous hair framed a face that was defined by chiselled cheekbones, cutting eyes, and surprisingly soft looking lips.  Not that John was staring.  He was just looking.  He was allowed to look.  He was a Fallen, John needed to be able to identify him properly for the Guard report.  Yeah, that sounded plausible enough.  The Fallen ignore him and was now examining the newly-tagged wall. 

“With your shoulder, I would call in back-up to help take them away.” 

John startled a little and nearly looked around to see who he was talking to.  It took longer than it should have to work out that it was himself being addressed. 

Instead of responding, he said “You’re not allowed to do that,” pointing to the gang dozing on the floor as if the other angel might be confused as to what he was referring to.  Annoyingly, he just huffed a short laugh and then turned as if to walk out the alley.  So, on impulse, John added, “And how the hell did you know about my shoulder?”

 _That_ made him stop.  He held very still, as if debating something, before turning back.

“There are a million tells you are military: the hair, the stance, the way you hold your wings.  But guard-duty means you are no longer in active service.  When this lot were going to stay put, you went to put up your left hand but winced and quickly shifted to your right.  Your shoulders are tense and there’s no other obvious sign of external injury, so left shoulder injury.  You really _should_ get someone to help with you with transporting them to the station, they’re not worth getting injured over.”

John blinked.  Straightened up a little.  “That was amazing.”

The Fallen looked startled.  “Really?”  So not as suave as he first appeared. 

John laughed a little.  “Yeah.  Really amazing.  Can you do that with anyone?”

“Cheating, lives in a bottom floor flat, owns two-no three cats,” was his reply, flicking his head around him at those on the ground.  It made his curls bounce across his forehead. 

John told himself he shouldn’t laugh.  “I’m going to verify that you know, when we question them.”  The other angel just shrugged and turned once more. 

“I know I’m right.”  And then he was gone, slipping around the corner. 

John wanted to follow him, to ask him more questions, to see where he went, to know him.  He couldn’t do that though because he was still on work hours, and he had four taggers to deal with.  Reluctantly he grabbed his phone out of his pocket. 

“Yeah, this is Watson requesting back-up.”

He glanced over to the wall.  The graffiti was fairly simple as far as graffiti went, just a circle with an upside-down triangle within it, with block letter over it.  However, the sight of it sent a chill down his spine and his military senses kicked in to tell him that this situation was not merely ‘Bad’ but ‘Highly Dangerous and Possibly Outright Malevolent’.

‘PURGE’ the sign said, block captials. 

He lifted the phone back up, without taking his eyes off the words.  “And get me Lestrade.” 


	2. Chapter 2

“John.”  Nothing. 

“John.”  Nada. 

“John!”

John’s eyes flicked up guiltily to see a judgemental eyebrow bring raised at him.  “I’m listening!” he protested. 

“Really?” Lestrade said as they marched down the pavement.  “So what was I just saying?”

“I believe you were just repeating the word John over and over again.  Flattering but you can see why I wasn’t enthralled.” 

In response, Lestrade hit him round the head with his right wing.  Hard. 

“Ow!  I only answered your question,” John grumbled into his takeaway coffee.

“You were being a dick.  Come on, you’ve been distracted all week.  I even get you invited to a high-level crime scene and you can’t even be bothered to _lie_ about being excited.  Do you know how rare this is?”

“I said thank you.  What more do you want?  Confetti?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes.  “This is why I don’t work with you.” 

Lestrade laughed.  “You’d get bored otherwise.  You’d have no else to talk to.”

There was some truth behind this statement.  Greg Lestrade, Senior Guard and technically John’s boss somewhere in the hierarchy of things, was under the distinct impression John didn’t have any friends (true) and had taken it upon himself to change this (unprompted).  A trip to a crime scene was apparently a stepping stone in a long-winded plan that began with friendly hello’s by the water cooler, and would eventually end up with

A) John having a friend so he had things to do with his life rather than simply slogging through his existence by sheer force of will.

B) Lestrade having someone to watch the football with and complain about life to.

Neither could be called “good” at friendship but John appreciated the effort.  It’s not like he _liked_ being alone all the time.  So they tried their best and did alright.  Which is how both of them ended up considering a crime scene a bonding activity. 

“So, what’s on your mind?”  Friendship also included small talk apparently, which was a difficult on two fronts.  One, John was not great at small talk but Greg already knew this and considered these questions a training ground of sorts.  Two, how to explain that most of his thoughts had been taken up, in some way or another, by a mysterious Fallen that swanned about in a long coat and kept on turning up in the same places John happened to be. 

“Ah, nothing much.  Just, you know, life stuff.  Work, shoulder, bedsit, next steps.”

It wasn’t a lie.  It just wasn’t the current truth either.  Had you asked him what he was thinking about a week ago, all those things would be on the list.  The past week though, he couldn’t help but turn his thoughts to the shadowy figure that had become so prevalent to his life.  Also, this guy was technically work related.  John’s job was about crime, this guy turned up at crime scenes.  Yes scenes multiple.  Ever since the first time they’d crossed paths, John kept seeing him out of the corner of his eye, a flutter of black wings, dark curly hair, a shadow moving across an alleyway.  However, by that logic a lot of things, including stray cats, uncollected rubbish, and the coffee shop on Queen’s Drive were all work related as well.  He also couldn’t entirely convince himself it was all case related.  Maybe it was the fact the guy had taken down the taggers instead of hitting John, when clearly he could have taken them all out.  Maybe it was the way his eyes seemed to light up when John said he was amazing.  Maybe he just wanted to keep the one reason he was excited to go to work that day, his own little ongoing mystery.  Whatever it was, there was something _different_ about him that John just couldn’t let go. 

 “Look, I’ve said before, I’m always-”

“-there to talk to, I know Greg, and as ever I can say I will keep it mind, thank you.”

There was approximately 7 seconds of silence where John thought he might get to enjoy his coffee in peace when Greg asked:

“You seen any more of those signs?” Greg’s voice was casual and he was staring straight ahead.  The investigation into the signs had stalled and agitation was setting in but Greg would be damned if he showed it. 

This was also a difficult question for John to answer.  Because he _had_ seen another sign.  But the Fallen had also been there and John didn’t want to get him into trouble.  Normally, if he was being practical, he would assume that the Fallen had something to do with the crimes.  It was the logical explanation and as a Guard, John really should have brought the guy in for questioning or at least investigated him further. Such as, for example, mentioning his existence to someone.  His boss perhaps.  His boss who was currently asking if he’d seen any more signs and was desperately, if secretly, looking for any leads.  But.  _But_.  If he said something and the Fallen happened to be there, then he could get in trouble and John couldn’t let go of him just yet. 

“One on Colliery Lane, and I’ve heard a couple have shown up in 15th Century Florence but I didn’t know if that was just a rumour.”

Greg shook his head.  “Yeah, so did I.  Florence checks out, as does 1920s Manhattan.”

“Any leads on what it means yet?”

“Not yet.  The kids you brought in only mentioned they’d heard it from some friends who heard it from their friends who had a cousin who’s best friend dog bumped into someone...” Greg trailed off, gesturing with his hands that the list went on for several hours and still no root had been found.  One disadvantage with the afterlife was that the sheer size of the place meant things started to spiral quickly.  If they didn’t control it now, it was unlikely they would ever reign in the chaos completely. 

For the first time since returning to civilian life, John was desperately happy to see the doors to Barts, a healing and teaching facility which worked closely with the CGUs (Council Guard Units), if only to change the subject.  As they swung through the doors, John said “To backtrack, I’m not certain I’d count someone breaking into someone’s house and stealing their arm as a high-profile case. Weird, yes.  Criminal, definitely.  High-profile, questionable.”

He’d walked a few steps into the hallway before he realised Greg was not with him.  He turned around to see him in the doorway, with a concerned look on his face.  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a strange man Watson?”

John just shrugged in response.  “I said it was weird.”

“Weird?  Not horrifying or gross?  Just weird?” Lestrade questioned as they began moving again.  

John snorted a small laugh.  “I was in the army Greg.”

Lestrade sighed.  “Duly noted.  Now, I have to go talk to some people higher up, they’re still blocking our evidence request for the Tillbury case.  Can you go and talk to our contact Stamford about any miscellaneous body parts that may have shown up?  His office is on the third floor, although he might be in a lab somewhere.  Can never find anyone in this bloody place.”

The name Stamford in the context of Barts made something click in John’s head as Lestrade continued to gripe about the annoying mobility of the Barts staff and the adverse effect it had on crime investigations.  “As in Mike Stamford?”

“Yeah, you know him?” Lestrade asked, mildly surprised. 

“A little.”  John was going to leave it at that but Greg had his ‘’Oh my god actual details about John Watson’s Life’ face on which meant an 83 page itemised list of questions would be on his desk if he didn’t head this off.  “We trained together a bit, briefly.  He was sent back and put on home duty the last I’d heard of him.  Must have been two years ago now.”  John’s memory patched together an image of a short man, small glasses perched on his nose (an aesthetic choice apparently), excellent at diagnosis and action plans, but without the surgeon’s accuracy needed on the front.  His natural good-nature made him popular though, and his kindness meant he had picked up John as part of his straggler group before the fighting split them apart across a battlefield.

“Well, you will be happy to hear he is now one the Guard’s personal liaisons at Barts, picked it up after Cameron retired last year.  Nice for you to catch up I guess, but don’t forget to ask if he’s seen the arm,” Lestrade said distractedly, glancing at his watch.  Although he attempted to be punctual, it seemed as if Lestrade’s life always existed half a minute behind everyone else’s. 

“How could I?  You want me to get you anything while I’m there?  New femur maybe?” John said as he walked towards the lifts. 

“You’re not funny Watson!” Lestrade called after him. 

In the short lift trip, the reality of running into an old army friend set in.  Since the war, there had been a nice dividing line between those who knew John before the war and those who knew him after.  No one had made the jump over the dividing line yet and this was because John had ensured it by taking a cut-and-burn approach to his contact list.  He was aware that he may be being a tad dramatic but the reality of the situation was that he didn’t want, nor need, the sympathetic looks or pity of anyone who had known him in what he considered his prime days.  He also didn’t want them to discover the life he was leading now after the promise he had shown, didn’t want to have to relive losing his powers over again, didn’t want to remember any of it if he could help it. 

But now that couldn’t be avoided and it was starting to freak him out.  Because Stamford was nice and was kind and would almost certainly want to talk about it and be nice and kind about it all.  This was perhaps why John did not exactly hurry to find Stamford’s office.  Lestrade hadn’t said it was urgent.  It was heavily _implied_ it was urgent.  The man missing the arm, Damien Russell, probably thought it was urgent.  But it hadn’t been _said_ that it was urgent and John was not above using a loophole from time to time. 

Which is how he stumbled across an open lab door. 

A open lab door revealing a lab with a figure inside.

A figure inside who John recognised. 

The figure who was the Fallen.

The Fallen that had seemingly taken to following John around London. 

The Fallen who was currently holding a severed arm in his hand. 

That couldn’t be a coincidence. 

John felt the same mix of curiosity and exasperation from their first meeting, this time tinged with a pleased note which he was doing his best to ignore.  He walked over to block the doorway, which was ridiculous if the room had windows, but it was the best he could do to secure the Fallen and to a lesser extent the arm.  The Fallen looked up, as if to yell at someone, before he spotted that it was John.  Because he didn’t want to think the Fallen looked happy to see him, because that made it sound as if John was expecting to be recognised, all John would allow himself was the acknowledgment that the Fallen didn’t look as if he wanted to yell about someone anymore.  This should not have made him as happy as he did. 

“Did you steal that from someone?” John had never said his strengths laid in interrogation.  Straight to the point seemed to work as an alternative. 

“This belongs to someone?” The Fallen looked at the arm with some surprise.  John merely raised an eyebrow, so the Fallen continued.  “Well obviously it _belonged_ to someone.  I’m merely surprised someone is actively looking for it.”

“Yes, well a man named Damien Russell would be very pleased if you returned it to him. Also-”

John was cut off by the Fallen’s response.  “I didn’t steal it.”  John was starting to feel that he should simply keep an eyebrow raised during this conversation, as he looked slowly from the Fallen’s now affronted face to the arm and back to his eyes.  Was this what other people felt talking to him?  He had some apologies to make. 

The Fallen sighed.  “I was given it.  You’d be able to tell that if you actually looked.”

“Okay, I’ll talk it through.  I’m looking for a guy’s missing right arm.  Next thing I know a Fallen’s wandering around with a singular arm that’s not his own.  I know I’m not the greatest detective,” (here he ignored the Fallen’s scoffed “Obviously”), “but I don’t think this is looking great for you.” 

“How do you know this is the correct arm?” the Fallen asked as he placed it onto the lab table. 

“I can make a pretty good guess!”  There were not, as a general rule, many detached limbs in the afterlife. 

“Nice to see the Guards have finally admitted their reliance on guess work.  Does help lower people’s expectations.”

John was about to argue back when a voice called from behind him. 

“Sherlock stop antagonising people. So sorry, he’s- John?”

Simultaneously a “You know him?” and “He’s disturbing my lab time!” like two kids trying to tell on the other first. 

This was not quite what John had imagined meeting Stamford or the Fallen again would have looked like. 

“Err, yes I do,” said Mike, looking unchanged from his army days, apart from being slightly chubbier and the lab coat, blinked as his mind caught up with the scene before him.  “John this is Sherlock, he uses the lab sometimes.  Sherlock this is John, we used to be in the army together.  I’m sure he has an excellent reason for dropping by and disrupting the sacred realm.” 

Sherlock.  His name was Sherlock.  _Sherlock_. 

What sort of name was that?  Who _was_ this guy?

“To interrupt my work?” Sherlock glanced over the lab desk to the doorway, then pointedly returned to whatever he was doing before the interruption.

Mike laughed a little.  “Well you have to admit it looks a little suspect.”

“You gave this to me.  If anyone’s a suspect it’s you.”

“You were handing out body parts?” John jumped in. 

Mike shrugged.  “I wouldn’t say handing out.”

“So, what _would_ you call this?” John said, gesturing to Sherlock and the apprehended limb.

“In my defence, we don’t normally have actual body parts around.  This one turned up this morning.”

“So you just gave it to him?”  John felt he was missing something.  Why was Mike letting a Fallen do experiments in Barts?  And who had stolen the arm?  

“I’m working,” Sherlock cut in, having turned his attention back to the arm.  He was currently prodding it with something, an action which John was certain Mr Russell was going to be pissed about. 

“I have to take it back if it is the arm we’re looking for,” John sighed.  “Because I work for the Guard now.  It isn’t weird,” he explained for Stamford’s benefit.

“Look, you’re just going to have to tell Daniel that you haven’t found his arm.”  Sherlock clearly did not worry about appearing weird.  Or indeed the words “that’s illegal”. 

“It’s Damien and you have it right there!  I’m not going to lie just so you can experiment on someone’s arm.”

Sherlock looked up to glare at him.  John wasn’t sure what he was trying to achieve but he glared back because, although he was willing to admit the Fallen intrigued him, he wasn’t willing to be dragged into this odd conspiracy.  Staring gave an opportunity to look at Sherlock properly.  He had nice eyes.  Although they were clearly trying to make John disappear, they were still nice.  An undefinable colour.  Ice blue blending into green-hazel.  Piercing.  Eyes you can see patterns in.  That was an odd thought.  _Concentrate John!_

“Sherlock, you have to hand back the arm.  You’ve been looking for the owner all morning,” Stamford cut in, breaking the tension.  John tried not to look surprised but fell dramatically short.  He was trying to help?

To John’s surprise, Sherlock did hand it back, not letting his eyes drop.  John felt as if he was mesmerised as he reached up to grab it.   Then Sherlock spoke, head tilting slowly to one side. 

“221 Baker Street, tomorrow, 1:30.”

He was throwing on his coat as John caught up with his words.  “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” he said, gliding past with a wink.  A goddamn wink.  And then he was gone. 

Stamford merely smiled, as if this was not entirely unexpected. 

“I think he likes you.  We should meet up sometime, catch up properly.”  John agreed on autopilot and they exchanged phone numbers.  Stamford then made his way back to his office.  John had a lot of questions, namely:

  * Who stole the arm?
  * Why was a Fallen looking for the owner?
  * How did Mike and Sherlock know each other?
  * Why was Sherlock following him around London?
  * Why was Sherlock here in the first place?
  * What the hell was at Baker Street?
  * How the hell was he going to explain this to Greg?



So he kind of had to go to Baker Street. 

For closure.

Dammit.    

But first, to find Greg and return an arm. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we see a conflicted John, inappropriate giggling, figure out what the hell a consulting detective is, and there's a warning down the line...

As he walked towards Baker Street John still considered turning around again.  He’d been considering turning back round since he’d left his flat.  And at the tube stop.  And on the tube (he fought an impulse to pull the emergency cord, although that was his main emotion while on the tube, _damn_ his wings for not working). Walking up the road.  Outside the door.  

Because at this moment, he could still leave.  Once he stepped through the door that was it, he’d have to deal with whatever was in the building but there was still time to leave. He looked around.  It didn’t _look_ like he was going to be dismembered.  There were a few people meandering up and down the street, a few shops, a cafe next to the door with 221 in smudged, silver letters.  However, that didn’t mean anything.  Who knew what was actually hidden behind the door? 

It was a fact that trusting a Fallen based on their word was a stupid idea that could only end in disaster.  John knew this.  John understood this.  John had been _trained_ for this. 

He was going anyway.

It wasn’t because of the wink. 

(It might have been because of the wink). 

It was because he had to find out how Sherlock had done it. 

As he was leaving Barts, he’d reconvened with Greg who said the Fallen had simply said “Brother did it.  Prank gone wrong” and then walked off.  So they returned to Damien’s flat, got a medic to reattach his arm, asked a few questions, went to question the brother, and fuck if Sherlock wasn’t right.

This in itself was probably why John should be on his way to arrest him because how could he know if he wasn’t involved?  Or up to what Greg referred to as “some seriously shady shit”?  That coupled with the fact that John couldn’t find him on the G.O.D (Great Omnipotent Database- never trust angels to come up with administrative solutions while drunk, they can be little shits and commit like all hell).  Although, if John was a Fallen, he would have kept off the grid too.  Plus, he still has no idea why Sherlock kept turning up while he was at work. 

So, he sort of _had_ to go.  Because of all the mystery stuff.  Not because of the wink though.  Definitely not because of that.

However, none of this mattered because the street was lacking one, very important thing. 

So far, no Sherlock Holmes. 

He attempted to look casual as he hung about the doorway.  Thought about wandering into the café for a coffee.  Also thought of walking around the block again.  Decided against both, the first because there were more people in the café than he was comfortable with, the second because he would feel like a right twat crossing past the same people again. 

Neither turned out necessary however as a black taxi rolled down the street, stopped, and there he was.  John never thought he would call anyone getting out of a car ‘graceful’ but that was the only way to describe it.  He then had to tell himself to get a grip as Sherlock was approaching him.

“Hello John,” he said, throwing out a gloved hand which John clasped without thought. 

“Yes, hello.”  Now he was in Sherlock’s presence he had apparently forgotten how to talk.  Luckily Sherlock didn’t seem to be listening, already striding towards the door.

“Don’t worry, I let the landlady know we were coming,” he said, rifling for something in his pocket. 

John nodded, as if this had been his major concern before he caught up with Sherlock’s words.  “Landlady?”

Sherlock ignored him.  “Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock yelled as a small, older woman appeared out of a side-door.  And it was a woman, a human woman rather than an angel.  Dressed in lilac cardigan, white shirt, and long sensible skirt, but also a pair of boots that wouldn’t look amiss on a 19th century pirate.

“Sherlock,” she said, obvious fondness in her voice, and to John’s surprise Sherlock submitted to a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  In their brief meetings previously, Sherlock didn’t strike him as the hugging type. 

“Mrs Hudson, John.  John, our landlady.”  Then Sherlock turned to practically bounce up the stairs. 

John had turned, said a perfunctory “Hello, nice to meet you,” and turned to Sherlock to ask “What do you mean _our_ landlady?” 

Mrs Hudson merely sighed like this was something that happened a lot.  “Oh Sherlock, you haven’t told him?”

“Can’t hear you!” Sherlock’s voice yelled down the stairs, despite the fact this was blatantly untrue.  They marched up after him and John paused in the doorway to witness 6ft of Fallen trying valiantly to ignore the presence of a 5ft4 woman glaring at him. However, whatever silent conversation, or threat, Mrs Hudson was trying to convey was lost on the angel, and John interrupted. 

“Our landlady?”  he repeated.  There was a small part of him that was uncertain Sherlock wouldn’t just jump out the window to avoid the question.

“Yes,” was the reply, a short glance over to John before his gaze returned to the bookshelf, haphazardly filled with various stacks of books yet to be properly sorted or which were being pulled down.

“Sherlock, why am I here?” he asked, for once hoping for a straight answer. 

Sherlock sighed dramatically as if he was tired of being so put upon by other people and spun to look at him directly.  “You cannot remain in that temporary housing block forever.  I need a flatmate to split rent with-”

“-And because I won’t let you rent by yourself,” Mrs Hudson chipped in.

“Well yes, and that.  I’m fairly certain you’re not a psychopath or a serial killer, which I have to say is quite disappointing but apparently makes for good flatmates.  You know Mike.  This seems like a good compromise.” 

John stood silent for a moment, trying to catch Sherlock out in a lie somehow.  Either he was an excellent actor (which John suspected he _was_ ) or this was all true.  Including the disappointment. 

He moved into the centre of the room to give the space a chance.  It was a bizarre room, messy probably with the previous occupant’s things, but not off-putting.  Victorian wallpaper, the darkness of which should have made the room claustrophobic but which made it feel cosy, like a den.  Two armchairs, mismatched, one squishy, one modern.  More tables than necessary, coffee table by the sofa, square one by the windows that seemed to be partially desk, one by each chair.  A mantlepiece above an actual fire had a random collection of things, a skull for one which was strange considering _where they were_ , a display case of moths, and some candle sticks.  A glance into the kitchen showed another table, quivering under the weight of...science equipment?  Cupboards from the 60s but perfectly serviceable once it saw some bleach and had things in it.  It was bigger than the space he had now, closer to the heart of the pretend city, Mrs Hudson seemed nice. 

And there was Sherlock.  Which was a whole other thing entirely. 

“Well it needs cleaning up,” he said at the same time Sherlock admitted “I moved some things in.”

Ah. 

John saw Mrs Hudson try not the laugh as Sherlock quickly covered by saying “I was going to tidy up,” and picked up a stack of papers on the floor only to leave them on a desk, as if that made them sorted.  Perhaps it did.  Well it wasn’t like he had a lot to move in anyway. 

“Can you promise _he’s_ not a psychopath or serial killer?” John asked Mrs Hudson and she chuckled.

“Neither of those.  Eccentric yes but he can be sweet when he wants.”  Sherlock looked a little scandalised.  “There’s a second bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two?”

“Of course we need two,” John immediately replied.

Sherlock took over the conversation once more.  “Lunch I think.”  And there he was off again, causing John to wonder if Sherlock ever stood still for longer than a minute.  He looked bemused at Mrs Hudson who patted his shoulder and was still trying not to laugh.  

“Come on John!”

 “Go on dear, or he’ll just start yelling again and we’ve already had complaints from next-door about the noise,” Mrs Hudson said, ushering him towards the door.  He was about the ask “what noise” but thought better of it. 

Sherlock was stood on the road, rocking back and forth on his heels and scanning the road for something.  Instead of heading towards the café next door, Sherlock led him a few streets away to a coffee shop where they sat in the window, John with a large latte and Sherlock with an Americano he didn’t touch.  As they walked in, Sherlock’s wings drew attention but either he didn’t notice the stares or, more likely he didn’t care.  John was not thrilled about the attention and sat facing the door.  He supposed now would be a good time to question why he was being shadowed. 

“You have a question.”  Damn mind-reader. “You’ve been staring at your cup for a minute now and attempted to talk three times.  Ask.”

“Why do you keep following me?  Because hopefully you can see how unnerving it is to follow someone around and then ask them to move in with you.”

“You noticed me following you?”  Did he sound impressed?

“Yeah I bloody noticed.  It’s like having a fucking omen following me round the streets.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, reminiscent of cat, but he didn’t look _angry._   Curious perhaps.  Intrigued. 

“I think you might be in danger.”  John sat up straighter in his chair, eyes flickering over the café.  There was only one obvious source. 

“From you?” he asked. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Really John be serious.”

“I am,” he said, setting his mug down.  “I barely know anything about you apart from you hang around crime scenes and sometimes steal body parts.  Not exactly a glowing CV.”

“I didn’t _steal_ anything!” and it looked like he was about to start a rant but restrained himself.  “Fine.  My name is Sherlock Holmes, I’m a consulting detective, not here illegally although you suspect I am, prefer to keep to the modern time zones, occasionally I don’t talk or even move for days on end, I play the violin at odd hours of the night, and I think you are in more danger than you realise.  There, happy?” He added a fake, bright smile at the end before dropping into a scowl. 

“And so obviously the logical thing is to ask me to move in with you.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “There are many benefits of moving in that you’re overlooking.  Rent will be cheaper, it’s closer to your work, and you’ll have someone who actually knows what they’re looking for around.”

“And what’s the benefit for you?  This danger will be drawn to your house?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean exactly? 

“You can’t just use people as bait!”

“Why not?”

“It’s impolite!” 

People were definitely staring now.  They locked eyes for a moment before Sherlock’s lips twitched and John laughed at how ridiculous they must look.  Sherlock looked away, as if blocking his own huff of a laughter. 

“So, what’s a consulting detective do?”

It was impossible to miss the way Sherlock’s eyes lit up and although his tone didn’t change, he leaned in excitedly while explaining.  “When the Guards are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”  He was clearly very smug about this. 

“Is that allowed?”

“It is when you’re me.” 

“Because you’re that good?”  Sherlock replied with a slight nod and a wry smile.  Arrogant as well. 

John smiled.  “Well I can’t wait to see that.”

“I’m sure you will very soon,” Sherlock said distractedly.  Something outside kept on catching his attention and John was fairly certain their lunch/ mini-interview was over.  He didn’t quite know what he had learnt from it but somehow he had made up his mind.  He stood up.

“As fun and weird as this is, I have to go cover a late shift.  But, I’ll do it you know.”  Sherlock tilted his head, an eye still on outside.  “I’ll be your bait I mean, for whatever it is your chasing.”  John couldn’t help but feel a little ridiculous as he said it but he did want to move out of his bed-sit and the idea of doing something productive, even if it was probably horrifically stupid, was alluring. 

Sherlock looked at him then, with a small, lopsided, genuine smile.  “Thank you, John.”  Because there was the mystery of Sherlock Holmes that John felt he had to unravel and _that_ was all the excuse he needed.  They agreed he’d text about when he’d move in (he was fairly certain his landlord wouldn’t mind that he was going but he didn’t want to seem over eager) and he went out onto the street.  As he looked back, Sherlock was still sat, eyes trained across the road, but at what John couldn’t see. 

He was feeling good as he made his way over to work, head full of the new flat and its mysterious but handsome occupant. 

Of course, that was before the phones started ringing. 

He didn’t notice at first as he stuck to main roads but when the crowds became a hindrance rather than a safety he ducked into the side streets.  It was rather difficult to not notice multiple phones practically stalking him down the road with their tones.  Or the fact they stopped as soon as he passed.  It was quite unsubtle. He came to a stop at one of them and glanced up and down the road.  It could be a coincidence.  A really, really weird coincidence.

“Hello Healer Watson.”  Or not.  The voice, a perfect example of Received Pronunciation English, was male, perfunctory and chillingly cold. 

“Who is this?” He used his best Guard voice, polite yet steel underneath.  No one had called him Healer in a long time. 

“What business do you have with Sherlock Holmes?”

“None.  I met him, yesterday.”  It struck him again that he really didn’t know this guy he was moving in with.  “Why do you care?”

Once again, he was ignored.  “I would advise you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.  Also take Portland Street to work, it will take less time than Broadgate.”  And then the line cut off, leaving John confused, on edge, and with a nagging feeling that he should text Sherlock about what just happened.  However, Portland _was_ quicker than Broadgate and John couldn’t help the thrill he felt as he vigilantly and carefully made his way over to work. 

And if he spent the next few hours even more focused on Sherlock Holmes, well, that wasn’t unusual anymore. 


	4. Chapter 4

Living with Sherlock Holmes was...strange.

It couldn’t be defined as “bad” or “good” because that would assume there was a reference point to begin with, some universal concept, out of which to create a sliding scale.  Nothing compared to living with him though. 

John would readily admit he had been worried.  After agreeing to move in, he had received a text from Mike wishing him “Good Luck!” and saying he always had room on the sofa when he needed to run away.  Not if, _when_.  Ominous coming from their one shared contact but Mike had seemed pretty happy to help Sherlock with his investigating, so it couldn’t be entirely awful.  

This worry also came from the fact that, after leaving Sherlock’s presence, the true ridiculousness of what he was about to do caught up with him. While talking to him, it had made perfect sense to move into a stranger’s house with an angel that couldn’t be traced and an apparent threat over his own head.  John toyed briefly with the idea that it was Sherlock who was the danger (he was following him around London, asked him to move in on no further information other than his name) before discounting it.  Why would anyone want to attack him?  It may be slightly sad, but living the solitary, regimented life he had been doing made him very low-risk for premeditated crime, there being very few people who knew he existed at all.  More telling about his concerns however was the fact he never thought about calling Sherlock and telling him he wasn’t moving in. 

Sherlock had been right when he said he couldn’t live in the bedsit forever, even if it did mean moving in with a madman. 

This was what he tried to tell Greg when he mentioned, casually, that he was moving. 

Greg was not impressed. 

“What do you mean you’re moving in with him?” Greg asked suspiciously, leaning back in his office chair as if to look John up and down, figuring out if he had finally gone mad.

John, sat on the other side of the desk, tried not to sigh.  “As in I’m moving into the spare room to help him cover the rent.”

Greg had surprisingly expressive eyebrows.  At the moment, they were broadcasting ‘John you are an actual idiot’.  Then Greg said “John, you are an actual idiot.  What if he’s dangerous?”

“He knows Mike, I’m sure he can’t be that bad.”

“Didn’t you say Mike collects the strange and outcast?”

“Hey, be careful! I was one of the strange and outcast.”

“You’re kind of proving my point here John.”

John threw a pen at him in retaliation.  “Rude.”

Greg caught the pen and started twirling it in his fingers.  “Look you could have said you wanted to move.  You could have had the spare room at mine or something.”

“Don’t you have your kid half the time?”

“You could have slept on the sofa.”

“What, with this wing?” John pointed at it.  It was a delicate thing and being crumpled up would hurt at the best of times, never mind every other week, and he grimaced at the thought. “Are you jealous?”

“Look, I have put a lot of effort into trying to be your friend Watson, and it would pain me to see all that effort wasted because you go and get yourself injured or worse by moving in with a guy you barely know, and a _Fallen_ at that.”  He waved the pen about for emphasis. 

John was oddly touched.  “Greg, seriously, don’t worry.  I can look after myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, army and all that, I know.  Just if you need anything, or anything looks suspicious, tell me alright?”  The investigation into the symbols appearing at crime scenes was still ongoing and Lestrade was growing desperate for a lead. 

“Course I will,” John said, and there was a large part of him that truly believed he would.  There was a small part however, deep down, that wondered.

It was amusing then, with these warnings ringing in his ears, that the actual move in day was fairly anti-climactic. 

He didn’t have much, a suitcase and some boxes, and he borrowed one of the squad cars to shift them (promising Greg he would bring it back the second his boxes landed on the doorstep and that he wouldn’t tell anyone else otherwise there would be pandemonium). 

When he got to the door, Mrs Hudson ushered him upstairs, gave him his key, showed him the basics and made tea while he moved things up several flights of stairs which was greatly appreciated.  Thankfully things had been marshaled into a more contained chaos and where he couldn’t find a space for things, he ditched the box to be sorted out later.  Throughout all this, there was no sign of the Fallen and John pretended he wasn’t disappointed by this. 

“Don’t worry dear, he’ll be back at some point.  He keeps strange hours our Sherlock.”  John began to deny both that he was waiting for Sherlock to appear and that he was in any way ‘ours’, but Mrs Hudson had already disappeared into the kitchen again.  Selective hearing appeared her specialty. 

To prove he was _not_ waiting for the Fallen, John took the car back and meandered his way home, and if he took the longer route, giving ample time for any certain person to arrive back in his flat, then that was just good luck. 

That being said, John would admit the flat looked better for having a Sherlock in it, more complete somehow, and he grinned when he saw the angel perched on the far chair, wings folded neatly and tight on his back, knees tucked up so his feet balanced precariously on the seat of the chair. 

“Tidied up for me?” John said, nodding around them.  Even more of the room had been restrained, and John could see his books had been piled onto the shelves, Fleming leaning on Antoine Lavoisier, old medical journals falling onto Newgate novels. 

Sherlock shrugged and dismissed with a “Mrs Hudson did most of it.”  However, John caught the smile Sherlock tried to conceal by looking away and his chest tightened.  It was nice, having someone notice. 

“Tea.”  It was less of a question and more a statement but he nodded anyway as Sherlock swung into the kitchen.  He went and settled in the other chair, red, squishy, and a bit ragged, and sighed, for the first time in a long time in contentment. 

***

Sherlock hadn’t lied about playing violin, nor had Mrs Hudson about his odd hours.  Sometimes he was there when John awoke, hunched over the kitchen table enraptured, others he was nowhere to be seen, and on a few memorable occasions John left him dozing on the sofa only to find him still there the morning after.  However, John never felt that he was in the way of something, or that he was trapped upstairs.  The muffled notes of the violin were soothing and John found he slept much better under the roof of 221B, safe in a room which was small enough to make his belongings look noticeable without feeling like he’d been shoved in the box room for convenience’s sake. 

There were other habits too.  Sherlock veered between never eating, running on coffee and will power (“Angels don’t need to sleep John.” “Yes they do.” “Well they shouldn’t.  A fatal design flaw if you ask me.”), and John catching him eating ice cream by the tub out the freezer at 4 in the morning (“I thought you were a burglar!  And eat something that isn’t just sugar, you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”).  There were more body parts, synthetic ones this time, although occasionally a real specimen came through the door and John restrained himself from asking where they had come from.  In the pursuit of cases Sherlock had, in the three weeks John had lived there: filled the bathtub with frog spawn, eaten 43 varieties of cheese with copious notes taken on each, set fire to a set of ornate wooden dolls (purposeful) and a cupboard door (accidental), and spent a memorable afternoon on roller-skates which John cried laughing about, despite the Fallen’s protests it was actually very serious John!  A woman’s soul hangs in the balance! 

He had started wishing his day would go quicker, but not to get them over with as efficiently as possible, but because tonight might be a night Sherlock was around, to fascinate him with tales that were only just plausible, or Mrs Hudson would be pottering about with cleaning or cooking or card games (she was spectacularly good at Rum and awful at Poker).  Even coming home to an empty flat wasn’t terrible, its walls filled with promise that something could happen at any moment. 

A moment, such as this.

It was a Friday.  Why John held onto this detail later would evade him but it felt very important for him to remember that the case started on a Friday.  It is also important to note that there were certain topics they didn’t talk about.  John’s army days and Sherlock’s wings.  Everything else could be skirted around, implied, alluded to or otherwise but not those two. It didn’t stop John from feeling burningly curious.  Sherlock had said he wasn’t here illegally so there had to be some explanation, some quirk in the system perhaps, or one of his experiments gone wrong.  He could be lying.  John hoped he wasn’t and chose to believe he wasn’t but without knowing...

Anyway, all this is to say, it was Friday.  By this point, Sherlock launching himself through the door with a sense of urgency was not unusual.  It was also noted that normally he stalked off to his room, or the kitchen, or threw himself over the sofa and didn’t speak on such occasions.  Despite this, _every single time_ , John started, adrenaline flooded his body, and his hands tingled with powers that could heal and hurt.  So, when Sherlock burst through the doors with a shout of “John?” it was both fortunate that John was prepared to answer the call, and unusual in the sense he needed to respond.  In fact, the abrupt change in routine made John even more agitated as he sprang up from his chair and whirled round to face him. 

Sherlock’s next words did not help the situation.  “There’s been a murder.”

John blinked at him.  Sherlock was practically vibrating with barely concealed excitement, hands fidgeting and feet twitching as if he wanted to race about the room like a ten-year-old. However, there was just a small, tiny, minuscule detail John needed to clarify first. 

“A what?” John asked. 

“A murder John, a real actual murder.”

“A murder.”

“Oh for the love of-” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

  “-in the afterlife I mean.  A murder in the afterlife?” John continued, defensively.

Sherlock grinned.  “Spectacular isn’t it?  Come on, we don’t have long.  We need to get there before they ruin it-”

“Where are we going?”

Sherlock looked at him with a special ‘John don't be slow’ look.  He liked wearing it and used it often but this one held a very thin balance between ‘I believe you can do better’ and ‘how did I end up with this idiot?’

“The crime scene?”

“Exactly John, you are on top form,” Sherlock said, throwing him his jacket, before about-turning and throwing himself back down the stairs.  John (after checking they’d locked the door and he had his phone) followed suit but this was still too slow for Sherlock who was pacing in front of the door.

“Mrs Hudson’s in.”

John had got past the part where he even asked.  “Even more reason to be safe.”

“She can handle herself.”  John frowned at Sherlock, who merely raised an eyebrow and hailed a cab.  John followed him in and continued his defence of home safety. 

“I’m just not fond of being burgled.  We live on a main road.” 

“No one would want to steal your stuff anyway.”

“Well you can thank me for saving all of your fancy bits later, when we return to a safe, un-burgled flat.”

“No one was going to try so they would have been fine anyway.  This case is time-sensitive.”

“You can’t know that.  Not psychic remember?” 

There had been a fraught conversation in the early days (if you can call two weeks ago “the early days”) about Sherlock’s deductions.  They had set up camp by the windows, John pointing out passers-by and Sherlock revealing small, quirky details, and some long-held secrets about them in the safety of their flat.  Sherlock was complaining most of them were predictable, boring, mundane, which made his deductions predictable, boring, mundane but John was, as ever, enraptured by it.  It was warm and cosy and he knew Sherlock was secretly enjoying himself, his mouth fighting against a smile.  This is perhaps why he made a mistake.  It was an innocent one, as far as mistakes go, but still, a mistake. 

“Maybe you should stick to using your Powers for the greater good than being nosy then.”

Oh John. 

Sherlock frowned slightly.  “Powers?”

“Yeah.  It is linked to your Powers in some way, right?  I worked it out.”  The worst thing was he was genuinely proud of having pieced together the key to Sherlock’s knowledge.  He’d shown he was powerful with the display at their first meeting and it made sense, this quirk being related to the myriad of ways an angel could enhance themselves.

Sherlock stalked away from the window.  Paused in the kitchen doorway.  Whirled back.

“You think it’s a magic trick?  Some psychic quirk I gave myself?”  Tone level.  Face blank. 

“I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that-” John started to backtrack but was interrupted.

“-But you think it’s something similar.  Something you can do at a party or other inane gathering, something you can be given?”

John floundered, confused about how this had fallen apart so quickly.

“It’s not.”

“What?”

“It’s not a trick.  Its observation.  Its learning about people and the way they act and the way they present themselves and using it as a code, as a guidebook.  People think they can hide things and some get very close but there will always be a tell, _always_.  That’s how I work.  It’s not some external Power bestowed to me.  It’s mine, I learnt it.”  The words flowed rapidly, pent up frustration flooding out, in the same even tone as before.

John nodded, desperate to right this.  “Okay.  Good to know.”  Sherlock nodded once and then went to curl up in his chair.   Tension still hung in the air though, in the way Sherlock had turned his back, in the locking of his muscles.

John moved to his own chair.  “You going to teach me then?” he said, with an uneasy smile, aiming for light. 

“Couldn’t.  Too stupid.”  Sherlock picked at the edges of the arm of the chair, tiny bits of the black leather ripping. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” John sniped back, and Sherlock stuck out his tongue.  And things were right again. 

“I know that they’re going to have messed up the crime scene.”  John jolted back to the present, Sherlock’s petulance requiring even more damage control. 

“That‘s guessing.  And you never guess,” he said automatically. 

“Not guessing if it’s based on past precedent.  They’re idiots.”

“So who’s they?”

“Guards.”

“Hey!”

“You’re one of the good idiots.  Wouldn’t keep you around otherwise.”

“I’m flattered.  So go on Prince Charming, tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Murder John!”

“Yeah, no, we’ve gone over that point already,” John said, becoming exasperated.

“ _Human_ murder.”

“But that’s impossible?”

“Not impossible.  Very difficult, highly unusual but not impossible.  After all, you can kill angels, why not the same for humans?”

“Obliterating souls is horrific though, it’s not even regularly illegal, it’s a declaration of terror, it’s-” John’s stuttering thoughts finally caught up to Sherlock’s.  “It could start another war.”

“Not if we stop it first,” Sherlock said, and he exited the cab, which had just rolled to a stop.

The alleyway was already blocked off by an opaque shield charm and was beginning to get crowded with curious people straining to see what the fuss was about.  Sherlock stalked to the front, his wings providing enough reason for people to get out the way and John followed closely.  The Guard on the outskirts, keeping the peace, was someone John recognised.  This was not necessarily helpful. 

“Hi Sally,” he said.  John knew exactly two things about Sally Donavon.  One) she worked with Lestrade in the higher profile cases.  Two) she did not approve of Lestrade inviting John onto crime scenes.  One of these would make the next bit difficult. 

“Hi John,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and angling herself so she was directly in the way of the opening of the shield.  “What are you doing here?”

Not an easy question to answer when he was certain ‘investigating crime’ would not go over well.

Sally continued.  “And who’s your friend?”

“I was invited,” Sherlock bristled.  John was fairly certain it was because he was relegated to ’the friend’ rather than the accusatory tone and tried not to be offended by this. 

“By who?”

“Me.”  A harassed looking Lestrade appeared, scrapping a hand through his hair. 

Sally did not move.  “So we’re just letting anyone in?”

“Sally please.  Just trust me,” Lestrade said, already backing up so they could slide through. 

“Not likely,” Sally said under her breath, slowly backing up to let them past.  

Lestrade either didn’t hear or didn’t care as he led them towards the far side of the alley, where a small group of people were gathered around the edges of something. 

“It was discovered about an hour ago so it’s still pretty live.  Be careful,” he warned. 

It looked like a small crater, a dent in path with spidering cracks running across the floor and up the walls of the surrounding buildings.  The air crackled with energy, a current seeking an outlet.  The centre of the crater was a glittering light blue which was quickly fading to black at the edges, and he could see the darkness creeping across like lava across the ground.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked, looking at John.

“The F.A.  It’s the end of the soul, the bits that are left.  It’s from the Latin, finem animae,” John said, remembering for a fleeting second the words in the Healer manual.  Strange what the mind keeps hold of.  “Obliterating a soul literally means obliterating it, flying it into fragments. Once that happens, they turn into a tar like substance as they basically cease to exist.  Someone must have noticed something?” John asked, turning to Lestrade.  Obliterations took a lot of energy and were exceedingly violent things.  It was impossible no one had been around to witness this. 

“These two buildings are unoccupied, under construction.  The next street over’s closed for repaving works.  It’s a quiet area of the city and so far, no one’s come forward.  Only reason we knew something was happening was because of an anonymous tip but the trail on that’s pretty cold by this point.”

“Premeditated?” John asked, already knowing the answer. 

“It’d be damn lucky if it wasn’t.” 

“And how do Sherlock and I factor into all this?” 

Lestrade shrugged.  “Honestly?  We’re getting nowhere fast on this case and between this and the symbols case I need a win, soon.  Figured your boy might be useful, him being a consultant and all.”

Something was off with Lestrade’s tone.  “You’re upset you didn’t know about him aren’t you?”

Lestrade sighed.  “No one tells me anything at that bloody place.  Would have been useful to know we consulate outside the force but no, I’ll continue to muddle on thank you very much.  Anyway, if he does alright with this, maybe I’ll let him have a go at the symbols thing, see if he can crack it.”

“And the fact he’s an unregistered Fallen wandering around has nothing to do with it at all,” John added and Lestrade shrugged again.

“Yeah, alright.  You know anything about that?”

John shook his head, looking over as Sherlock peered at the walls, an officer edging towards him to make sure he didn’t touch anything poisonous or any potential evidence.  It was a battle to see who could withstand the lack of personal space.  The officer was losing.  “No idea.  We don’t talk about it.”  He looked over to Lestrade who was looking curiously at Sherlock’s wings.  “He doesn’t have anything to do with this Greg.”

Lestrade nodded.  “I don’t think he does either.  But it would be useful for him and you if he can help clear his own name about this.”  They shared a look, one that said ‘Look after yourself first.  And him if you can.’  John was determined to do both. 

“John.”  He jumped as Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, dropping from the air.  A phone was shoved in his face.  “John, _look_.” 

John pushed the hand back and grabbed the phone.  “Okay, let me actually see.  What am I looking at?”

“Crime scene.  Aerial view.” 

“You shouldn’t be flying at a crime scene.”

“John!”

To mollify the detective, John looked at the photo and proceeded to nearly drop the phone.  The spiralling cracks formed a symbol.  _The_ symbol. 

“That’s-”

“Yes.”

“So this is-”

“Exactly.”

“Fancy letting me in?” Lestrade said, edging towards the phone.

“It’s linked.  This and the symbols,” John said, showing Lestrade the photo. 

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

Sherlock turned on Lestrade, who took a step back.  “Have you identified the victim yet?” 

“I can check.  Mallory?  Any further on id?”

A young angel whirled round.  “Yes sir,” he said, running forward and handing over a tablet. 

Lestrade sighed and John tried not to laugh.  He had heard _a lot_ about Mallory and his enthusiasm.  “Once again, don’t need to call me sir.  Okay, so victim is Barry Faber, only been here 10 years, no priors, lives a few streets over on Devonshire Road.  So far nothing’s been flagged up in relation to him.”  He passed the tablet over to Sherlock who scrolled through before stilling completely, wings high, as if suspended in flight. 

“What is it?” John leaned in.

Sherlock turned the tablet to him.  “Recognise him?”

Deep lines in a pointed face, watery eyes, sandwiched between two children’s faces; a birthday or similar John would guess.  A profile picture from his previous life?  There was no signal of recognition.  John shook his head.

Sherlock sighed.  “Awful memory John.  To see someone so recently and not notice them.”

“Bit of a time pressure here Sherlock,” Lestrade nudged. 

“Cab driver,” Sherlock said and like the symbol, something clicked into place. 

“Cab driver?” Lestrade asked. 

“This man drove the taxi that John and I took here,” he said, nearly stabbing the image on the tablet.

Lestrade started shaking his head.  “Sherlock are you-”

“ _Certain_.”

John couldn’t tell where Sherlock’s mind was racing to and attempted to catch up.  “So how, after having his soul ripped apart, does he end up driving a cab not an hour later?”

Sherlock smiled.  “Precisely what we’re going to find out.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a fast/ bitty edit on this one so let me know of any mistakes (edited part of it at work, then some at home, didn't realise the work stuff only saved onto the internet version etc etc, you get the drift)

With Sherlock’s dramatic declaration and exit, John had assumed the next part may include some running, jumping, general catching of bad guys.  A chance to play action hero.  He was even more intrigued when, on chasing after Sherlock and asking him what next, Sherlock simply jumped into a cab and said “Shhhh. Thinking.”  

He was slightly disappointed then, when they pulled up outside Bart's.  Although he was sure it was a lovely place, the only challenges there would be intellectual ones, and Sherlock had that base covered.  

“You think Mike can help?” he asked. They still hadn’t gone out for that catch-up, despite texting a little and although John wouldn’t say he was avoiding Mike, he was almost definitely avoiding him.  He supposed he could point to his flatmate and shrug in a ‘Well you know living with him is a full-time job’ way.  

“Hmm?” Sherlock said absentmindedly.  “Mike?  No.  There’s someone else we need to see.”

He wondered about Sherlock’s reach.  Were the entire staff at Bart’s beholden to the Fallen angel?  Was it a building-wide secret?  There had to be some sort of system in place, surely, otherwise everyone would know.  Or did Sherlock only lurk about when no one else was there, Bart’s very own ghost.  

Instead of heading upstairs as expected, Sherlock led him down into the depths of the building, the lights flickering on a split second too slow so they were constantly moving into the dark.  The doors in the corridor seemed to lead to another set of lab rooms and Sherlock was about to swing into one when-

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A petite woman stood in the doorway of an office.  She didn’t look very threatening: mousy brown hair was pulled up into a pony tail, a candyfloss pink cardigan peaked out behind her lab-coat.  Despite the late hour, the coffee mug in her hand suggested her day was only just beginning.  

“Molly!  Just the person we need,” Sherlock said, flashing a smile.  

“I told you, you can’t keep on sneaking round here.  My boss is getting suspicious,” she said with a sigh but John couldn’t help notice she hadn’t said they couldn’t use the room.  Living with Sherlock had made him a quick master of the technicality.  

“This is important I promise,” Sherlock said, his voice quickening with excitement.  Molly looked like she was about to interrupt, probably having heard many things were ‘important’ but Sherlock kept going. “No, seriously important.  I’m working with the Guards,” he said, gesturing to John, who waved for lack of anything else to do.  “There’s been a murder Molly, a real one, and not on a battlefield or on earth, but here, now and I’m going to find the killer.”

John expected Molly to recoil from such a statement.  Instead she looked curious, and here John realised why Sherlock was allowed a run on the labs down here.  She glanced behind her and turned back, leaning in.  “Fine.  Don’t break anything.  Be out by morning.  I’ll bring you tea.”

“Coffee,” was Sherlock’s only reply as he bound into the workspace.  

John turned to Molly and nodded.  “Thanks,” he said because one of them needed to be polite.  

“Don’t mention it,” she said with an ‘I know how he is’ shrug.  “Molly,” she said, sticking her hand out jerkily, as if this was a foreign gesture, one read about but never attempted.  

“John,” he said, taking her hand.  “Full disclosure, I am actually a Guard, but I’m also his flatmate.”  Molly tilted her head to the side. 

“Flatmate?  I didn’t realise he had one.”

He didn’t want to feel offended.  “It’s sort of a new thing.”

She looked as if she wanted to ask questions but something was stopping her, and instead the pause was interrupted by a shout of “John.”

“Duty calls,” he said with a nod. 

The lab was like any other he’d seen.  A row of desks, one of which was decked out with equipment Sherlock had pulled from around the room, and some computers dotted around, one of which was glowing with a start screen.  Sherlock was plugging in a vaulted camera over the microscope and connecting it to the computer.  

“John, you’ve seen F.A. before correct?” he said, not looking up.

“I mean mostly only in a theoretical sense.  We’re meant to keep people alive remember.”  Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.  “You know what I mean!  Unobliterated.  Soul intact, that sort of thing.”

“But you have seen it?” Sherlock insisted.

John swallowed.  “Yes.”  Of course, there was one place that he saw F.A. every other day, although his interactions were tinged by grief rather than the clinical precision Sherlock was showing.

“Excellent.  You’ll be able to verify this.”  Sherlock said, as he produced a vial from a coat pocket.

John had a sinking feeling he already knew what it was but he had to ask to be sure.  “Sherlock.  What is that?”

“F.A.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Crime scene.”

“Sherlock!  You can’t take things from an active crime scene!”  

Sherlock pretended not to hear and kept adjusting the microscope.  He should tell Lestrade.  It would make sense to tell him.  It might be necessary for the investigation to know a part of someone’s soul was missing and had been taken by a Fallen, even if that Fallen seemed very enthusiastic about solving the crime.  

Instead he sat by the computer and sighed so Sherlock knew he was annoyed.  “What do you need me to do?” 

“I need you to make sure it’s real.”  A piece of ex-soul was extracted with a pair of tweezers and gently put onto a slide.  It was strange seeing Sherlock being so delicate, much of his life seeming to happen in bangs and crashes and explosions.  

“You think he’s faked it?”  Sherlock shrugged.  “But why still drive a taxi?  Doesn’t seem to be dreaming very big.”

“People are strange beings John,” Sherlock muttered.  Molly appeared in the doorway with two mugs and handed one to John, sliding the other to the other side of Sherlock’s bench, away from the work.  If this also helped her peek over Sherlock’s shoulder, then that was a happy coincidence.  

“We’re going to need the database,” Sherlock said without looking.  “Please,” he added, an afterthought.  

“The Guards will have verified it you know,” Molly said, even as she did as bid and logged into some software.  Sherlock scoffed to demonstrate just what he thought of the Guards ability.

“Soul Pattern Recognition,” she said to John and he nodded.  SPR software could be used in conjunction with the G.O.D to confirm identities.  It was usually used for incoming souls rather than outgoing though.  “I’m part of the logging-in team here,” she explained and suddenly her presence here in the middle of the night made sense.  After all, dying didn’t exactly have office hours.  

It was true that people “woke up” in heaven but this was not instantaneous, as many people presume.  Therefore, in the period of time between dying on earth and waking up in heaven, it was the job of a team of angels to make sure they were set up for their time in heaven, including soul registration and identification checks.  It was not a highly sort after branch of Healing, despite being a lucrative one, as working with the recently deceased who could awake at any moment understandably unnerved many.  However, access to the databases and information that undercut the world around them would be a useful resource for someone unofficially fighting crime, and John could see why Sherlock would cultivate an association.  Molly however?  What was she getting out of the deal between them?  John thought of the voice on the phone but couldn’t see Molly as a spy.

However much he wanted to keep pondering the question, John couldn’t sit around musing for too long though, as he had a task to complete.  

“Do you have any sulphuric acid?”  

Molly nodded to the open cupboard which John suspected was meant to be locked.  He shifted vials and brought it carefully to the end of the bench.  Both Molly and Sherlock seemed intrigued.  Trying not to feel too much like a magician or science teacher, John tipped a dose into an empty beaker and used the tweezers to extract another small chuck of F.A.  He dropped it in and swilled it round for lack of a stirrer.  The mixture gradually changed gradient, from clear to a glowing blue.  

“It’s the glow you have to look for,” he said, highly aware of Sherlock looking at him with as close to awe as Sherlock ever looked.  Well, the mixture.  John was sure Sherlock had forgotten he was there.  John stood up and motioned for Sherlock to put his hand over the mixture, to feel the power that was emanating from the solution.  There were other markers and tests you could do to confirm it but this was by far the simplest and effective.

“It’s definitely F.A.?” he asked and John nodded.

“You can’t recreate this specific power register without F.A.  I think it said somewhere you could make a magnet levitate if you dropped it into the beaker,” he said.  

Sherlock looked tempted to run and find one but instead turned back to the microscope and John tidied up his little experiment, leaving the glowing substance on the side.  It looked decorative, like the innards of a lava lamp.  John had wondered what the allure was and now he could see how it was oddly therapeutic.  Upsetting that this used to be a person though.  Bet they wouldn’t have gone down as well in the 90s.  

He watched as the others worked, until the computer stopped whirring and recalibrating, and Sherlock stopped messing about the microscope, and suddenly, Barry Faber’s face was staring at them from the screen, a shot before and after he woke up in the afterlife.  

“So it’s definitely him?” John asked.

“That was his soul, yes,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair and propping his hands under his chin.  John could almost see the pieces of evidence, like Tetris pieces or a Rubik’s cube, moving and shifting, clicking into place.  He wished, not for the first time, that he could see what Sherlock did, see how it all fit together.

“We need to find the taxi,” Sherlock said, nodding and John nodded, glad he was finally in sync with the detective.  It was the logical answer, finding the man who was not dead and apparently soul-less. 

“Lestrade will be onto it,” he offered but Sherlock shook his head.  “He can’t be far.”

“Not the driver John.  That would be useful but the taxi would be easier to find.”  And suddenly, John wasn’t following anymore.  “Or-” Sherlock gasped and shook his head.  “Slow,” he muttered to himself, thoughts coming out in stops and starts, flickers of thought patterns, matched by movements on the keyboard.  “Only an idiot- but would they- must- ah maybe...”  Until finally he smacked the desk, frustrated in his plans. 

Molly squeaked and John realised she was still there, as wrapped up in Sherlock’s mutterings as he had been.  Her cheeks turned red and they looked at her, and her eyes skittered away, over to the clock on the wall.  She stood up.  

“I should probably get to work.  Just lock up the room, I’ll clean up.”  And without waiting for a thank you she ran out the room.  John looked at Sherlock.  Sherlock looked back and shrugged.  They both turned back to the screen.  

It took a moment to work out what he was looking at.  On the screen was a map of the streets they had just been down.  Lines traced over the most of the streets, a tangle of criss-crossing and well-worn tracks.  Sherlock definitely shouldn’t have access to this.  

“Is that-”

“- a map of the taxi routes yes.  Mr Faber’s is here,” Sherlock pointed to the alleyway they had just left, “at roughly 9.”

“The time he was killed,” John said.  

“Then the car drives around, you can see the route to us, before it cuts out here.”  He stabbed the spot viciously.  “The taxi rank at the station.”

“How do you know it cuts out?”

Sherlock sighs and clicked through a few time signatures.  At about 10:30pm, dot registering where the car was began to move out, down a few streets into traffic, then flickered and disappeared.  

John knew it was a long shot but gambled.  “Could be a coincidence.”

“Really John?  A cab driver is killed, a man who looks the exact same drives his cab around for an hour and half, and you think it’s a coincidence the tracker cuts out?”

“You think he knows we’re onto him.”

“Probably.”  Sherlock was on the verge of a sulk.  

“But why not cut it immediately after stealing the car?”

“Because no one knew it was stolen at that point.  The “body” still hadn’t been found, and to everyone else, that might as well have been Faber driving the cab.  When he realised the police were onto him he must have driven to a crowded location and then disappeared.”

“You don’t think it’s still at the station?”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say No but hesitated.  Instead of answering that he didn’t know, he shrugged.  

“Fine, the old-fashioned route it is.”  Sherlock pretended not to look interested but couldn’t help glance at him out the corner of his eye.  “Can you find the number-plate?”

Sherlock flicked the mouse and pulled up the plate.  John got out his phone and texted out an alert.  “I’ve alerted the Guard to look out for the car as well as the man.”  Sherlock did not look pleased about introducing other people but they couldn’t logically search the entirety of the afterlife by themselves.

There was still one pressing thing John wanted to know.  “So why do we need the car?”

Sherlock was silent for a while and John was about to give up when he deigned to answer.  “They’ll be DNA in the car.”

John was confused by this.  “But we know it’s Faber,” he said.  Then a thought occurred to him and he took a punt.  “Wait, do you think it’s twins?” 

Sherlock’s look gave a damning answer.  “It’s never twins John.”

“This could be the first time!”  Sherlock scoffed and returned to glaring at the screen.  “You don’t think they'll look like Faber anymore, do you.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “I find it highly unlikely.”

John expected that at some point he would jump up and begin to run off, bounding across the streets of London to the station.  However, it seemed that Sherlock was content to sit until he gained the ability to burn a whole through the screen that defied him and his crime solving ability which could last a while and John had not planned on spending eternity in the windowless basement of St Bartholemew’s Laboratory and Learning Centre.  

Most saints were arseholes.  Turns out naming a building after someone makes them even more unbearable than their canonisation.  

“So, what’s next?” he asked.  

Sherlock grimaced.  “Lestrade wants us to help interview family members, friends,  _neighbours_ ,” he said, spitting out the words.  

John stood up and threw Sherlock’s coat at him.  “Let’s go and get chatting then.”

“There’s going to be crying.”

“Well I’ll be crying if we stay here for much longer and trust me I’m worse to deal with.”

*******

It turned out that Barry Faber did not have many people in the afterlife he called ‘friend’.  This suited some people and, in this instance, made everyone’s lives a little easier. 

Lestrade met them outside the flat block belonging to Mr Faber and one Miss Marjorie Lincoln, his neighbour.  John’s initial thoughts were mainly comprised of thinking he’d never wondered how much peach one person could fit into a two-bedroom flat and what he could do now he knew the answer. 

The next was how much one woman could cry about a man she had spoken to about three times.  It turned out a lot. 

“It’s just a shock you know.  People rarely leave, and you’d think with us being here,” she gestured around to encompass the general ‘afterlife’ area. 

Lestrade was politely nodding understandingly on a two-seater sofa, while John made tea.  Sherlock for his part refused a seat and was restlessly pacing behind the aforementioned sofa.  It was not creating a calming environment for an informal police interview.

“We understand that Miss Lincoln, truly.  We just need you to answer a few questions, if you feel able,” Lestrade said. 

“Of course, she’s able, she’d still breathing, she hasn’t fainted, she talked two seconds ago,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Ignore him,” John said, putting the well sugared drink down by her elbow.  Sherlock scowled at him.  “Can you tell us about Mr Faber?”

She considered this question.  John took the other seat on the sofa and swore the porcelain cats on the mantlepiece were staring at him.  He focussed on the woman instead.

“He kept to himself,” she began.  “Quiet you know?  I find it very strange.  I was telling this to Gladys, she lived next door, lovely woman, moved in with a man last summer-”

“Do you think Gladys killed him?” Sherlock interrupted. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you think Gladys murdered Mr Faber?”

“No.”

“Then how is she relevant to this?”

“Sherlock.”

Silence descended again from the phantom behind the sofa.  At least the pacing had stopped.

“Carry on Miss Lincoln,” Lestrade said. 

“Well I didn’t know him very well.  It used to be a much friendlier neighbourhood but that’s all changed now you see-“

Sensing they were in dangerous waters again, Lestrade asked “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Mr Faber?”

“Oh no.  That’s not what I meant by not friendly, I mean sure it’d be nice to get a decent conversation now and again but I don’t think anyone’s malicious, or at least I don’t know of anyone-“

Sherlock sighed dramatically and launched himself around the sofa.  “His thinly veiled question was do you know who killed him?”

“No. I-“

“Then why not just say that?  Over-talking can be a sign of guilt you see, the conscience tying itself up in knots trying not to get caught and to wrestle the bad feeling down so it doesn’t leak into your voice.  Maybe you did it yourself.  Seems plausible, you knew the victim, you said he was quiet, knew he didn’t have many friends, and who knows, the system makes mistakes sometimes, maybe a psychopath go through, maybe this is all a front and you have body parts under the floorboards, is that it?”  He’d advanced on the poor woman as he began his tirade, blocking her in.  She had gone from protesting to wordlessly mouthing, clearly terrified. 

“Sherlock!” John shouted.  The Fallen stopped dead, drew himself up, and stalked out the door.  John followed closely on his heels, with an apologetic grimace to Lestrade and Miss Lincoln.  He was sure Lestrade could handle the fallout. 

Sherlock walked two doors down and then turned on him.  “This is a pointless exercise and you know it.”

“Yes probably,” John admitted.  He was not stupid and did not think Miss Lincoln could help with the case. 

“So, why go along with it?” Sherlock asked, mystified. 

“Because it’s our  _job_.”

“My job is to solve crimes no one else can because I don’t spend my time doing work that isn’t useful.  You, on the other hand, wander around the streets of London, catching the occasional mild delinquent and drinking shit coffee.”

John scrunched his hands into fists.  “You’re being rude.”

"You knew that when you moved in with me.  I'm not nice, nice doesn't get you anywhere."

"Why are you being like this?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Don’t turn people into heroes John, they’ll only disappoint you.”

“I don’t-“

“Of course, you do.  Think of all those people in your precious army you never talk about and I can tell you why-”

“Shut Up!”

They stared at each other for a moment, cold fury emanating from one, disdain from the other. 

“I look like an angel John but don’t for a second think I am one.”

And with that parting shot, he was gone, a shadow blending into the night. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock did not come home that night.  Or at least, John didn’t see him.  This may also have been because upon coming home, John went straight upstairs and pretended he wasn’t listening for the door slamming downstairs. 

He did not sleep well. 

After Sherlock had stormed off, he had gone back in to Mrs Lincoln’s and silently stewed while she meandered her way through several answers.  Lestrade kept on glancing at him, clearly desperate to ask what the hell was going on but bound to the procedures of the case.  When the questioning was over and they had walked down to the street, John cut him off before he started.

“Don’t Greg.”

Lestrade tried to speak but John held up a hand.  “I’m going home.  Just leave it alright?” 

His thoughts had narrowed to functions, keeping him in movement. 

Fists clenched.  One foot after the other.  Find the faux-river.  Watch the storm clouds roll in.  Stomping footsteps and a rolling stomach.  Don’t think about it.  How _dare_ he?  Don’t think about it!  He had _never_ stepped over Sherlock’s carefully crafted boundaries and yet the _moment_ he was bored- Don’t think about it. 

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about him. 

Fuck him. 

Bastard.

Feel cold. 

Shoulder hurts. 

Could rain.

Get home. 

Just a few streets away. 

Unlock door.  Slam it- no.  Mrs H. 

Climb the stairs, up, up, up.

Bed. 

Don’t think about him. 

Bastard. 

Don’t think.

***

When he went to work the next day, he expected questions from Lestrade, yet no grey-hair appeared in his vision.  Apparently there was a lead on a case or paperwork or something capturing his attention.  Whatever.  John didn’t care. 

The storm had rolled in and 21st Century London was heavy with the anticipation of the coming rain, stuck in the moment before the drops start to fall.  The clouds were sinking, hovering, almost waiting.  His route was even more onerous than usual, the familiar streets not even registering in his vision, past versions of the walk flickering in his mind and overlapping.  It wasn’t different from any of those times before, it never was, and it never would be.  The words from yesterday had sunk into his mind.  He hesitated outside his usual coffee haunt, heading there on automatic before halting, stuck in the doorway to the chagrin of the man behind him.  He turned away and marched down the street, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.  His hands bumped up against his silent phone, the only people who had the number clearly busy with more important things.

The fairytale couldn’t last forever after all and reality thundered back in.  All that was needed was a lightning bolt to enlighten him to the truth and now his world, so bright recently, had taken on a shade of grey. 

As he had nothing but time, it was difficult not to get stuck in a rut of thought patterns, repeating yesterday like a mantra until it became the only thing he could see, only thing he could think of, only thing that seemed real.  This is perhaps why he bumped into three different people, each time shaking the images from his mind and vowing to ignore it.  He had practice at ignoring things.  Usually, he was excellent at it.  Today seemed to be an exception.

The universe didn’t help him wallow in self pity, despite the weather.  Half-way through his second circuit he received a message from a Guard patrolling another section of the city.  They’d found the taxi.  It was parked on a residential road, in someone’s driveway, meaning the eye tended to glance over it without registering it as odd.  There was no answer when the door was knocked, and at first viewing the house looked abandoned as well, the car matching the building it was left by like a part of a collection.  He sent a text each to Sherlock and Lestrade with the location and determined to leave them to it, shoving his phone back in his pocket.  He was only a Junior Guard, what did he know about crime investigations or abandoned taxis or people with changing faces?  His thoughts shuddered onto a similar, yet different track to whirl around and he was quickly lost in them once more. 

By the time he bumped into the fourth person he had decided he would be rude as any person in the real London would be and just ignore it.  They should be looking where they were going. 

This was prevented by knowing the person he had bumped into. 

“John.”

As he had previously found, it was difficult to miss the black wings. 

Seeing him again reminded John of how angry he still was, how much he had stored and fermented overnight, increasing the strength of the emotion like ageing wine.  It was richer and deeper and had a flavour all of its own.  He wanted Sherlock to know his anger, to feel it, to understand that he had a right to this feeling.  

He glared, as he had done yesterday, into that pale, sculpted face, daring it to look back.  Sherlock had the decency to look away, across the street.  He was about to move on, to ignore the Fallen completely, but Sherlock sensed this and put a hand on his arm.  He shrugged it off and stepped back.

“I came to find you,” Sherlock said, an entry to stay. 

“Why?”  He had no patience for pleasantries.

“They found the car.”

“I know.”

“So you’re coming then.”

“Where?”  He was being deliberately obtuse. 

Sherlock seemed to fighting against a sigh, as to do so would derail not just their conversation but their entire relationship.  “To investigate the car.  I-” he struggled against the next words, forcing them out as if evicting them from his body.  “I want you to come,” was the quiet, determined addition.  His gaze had now flickered to his shoes, and John didn’t know if it was this or the hunch of the shoulders, or the expression of innocent confusion which clouded Sherlock’s face, or simply the fact that he was feeling like shit and it was nice to be wanted.

Despite the fact he should have replied with “We don’t always get what we want,” he instead replied “Alright.”

Sherlock looked up and a ghost of a smile passed over his face.  He was clearly unsure how he had arrived at the outcome he wanted but it was nice that his plan worked out all the same. 

John had to say he was still curious, both about the car and about Sherlock’s plan to get him speaking again. 

Sherlock navigated them through the streets, saying he knew a shortcut.  He stopped them at a questionable four-way interchange of streets, vanished, then reappeared with coffee.  He held one out to John and he took it.  He hadn’t realised how cold his hands felt without the usual temperature of a warm beverage to clasp and he wrapped his fingers around the cup like it was an exothermic glove.  It was a peace offering, like the invitation to the investigation, and John accepted it, albeit warily.

He was fairly certain Sherlock was not going to apologise for last night.  He was to be proved correct in such an assumption.  However, they could not spend the next however many hours in silence because John felt he would surely go mad.  But he wasn’t going to break the silence first.  Oh no, let Sherlock do that.  It’s the least he could do.  It was right he should talk first.  John hadn’t done anything other than his job.  No, he wouldn’t speak first, he wouldn’t. 

No.

“Lestrade doesn’t trust you.”  Fuck. 

“Hmmm.  No,” Sherlock agreed, taking a sip of coffee, as if this was a regular conversation starter. 

“He thinks you might be mixed up in all this,” John carried on, conversationally, as if they were talking about the traffic or the weather. 

“Yep.”  Sherlock paused.  “You think so too.”  By his tone, it sounded more like he was feeling out a hunch than providing a theory.  John did not know when he became an expert on such differences in tone. 

He considered the hypothesis.  Was Sherlock a colossal dick?  Yes.  Would he gladly hit him round the head and yell at him a bit?  Absolutely.  Capable of cold-blooded, premeditated murder?  ...No.  Probably not. 

“I think you find it interesting which makes you _look_ guilty.  I don’t think you did it though.”

Sherlock looked at him out the corner of his eye.  “Wouldn’t blame you if you did.  It’s a logical conclusion to draw.”  Sherlock admitting that someone other than him could reach the logical conclusion about something.  Well, there always has to be a first time for everything. 

“I know.  But I don’t.”

Sherlock was hiding a smile behind his coffee cup.  John was looking forward, ostensibly not noticing anything, but he could still see Sherlock out of his peripheral vision.

“Some would say that makes you a fool.”

John huffed a short laugh.  “Some people already have.”

Sherlock snorted at that, then paused.  “Thank you.  For trusting me.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I trusted you.  Just that I don’t think you’re capable of a war crime.”

Sherlock pretended to be offended at this.  “You need to be more imaginative.  Almost every person I’ve met has tried to accuse me of violent rebellion at least 6 times.”

“Explains why a lot of people tried to warn me away from you.”

The offense became real.  “What people?”

John put on a show of thinking and listing them on his fingers.  “Err so there was Greg because of the whole ‘not trusting you thing’, Mike who likes you but clearly thinks you’d make an awful flatmate, which I’m still on the fence about by the way, and...” Here John paused because he was certain there was another person.  “Oh yeah, there was this strange phone call telling me to stay away from you.  Shit, was that like a stalker or something?”  John realised that he should have probably mentioned this sooner, no matter how annoying he was.

Sherlock didn’t sound worried though.  “Ugh, not our problem right now.  Hang on, did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John thought about it.  “No.  Just to stay away and to take Broadgate on the way home.”

“That must mean Greg took it instead.  Good, hopefully he’ll buy a suit jacket that fits.  And he’s right by the way, it’s a much quicker route.”

John paused.  “So, no worrying about the creepy guy phoning me about you?”

“Not at the moment no.”

John wondered if Sherlock would ever give him a straight, non-cryptic answer to a question.  It also suggested this would be a problem for Future-John and he’d like to know in advance what it was he would be berated for not noticing.  “Despite the fact that one of the first things you said to me was that I was in danger.”

That made Sherlock frown slightly.  Perhaps upset he hadn’t solved that particular problem yet.  “Yes.  I think you still are by the way.  But not from the person on the phone, that’s another problem entirely and not a priority right now.  Unlike-” Sherlock finished as they emerged from an alley between two buildings onto a residential road.  One house was cordoned off with the same opaque shield as yesterday and John was going to walk towards it when Sherlock tugged on his sleeve. 

He turned to look at the Fallen.  It was the first time since their argument that he’d looked Sherlock in the eye.  He seemed to be searching for something, his eyes scanning John’s features.  He looked almost...sad?  John frowned and in response so did Sherlock, until John realised that he was looking for a sign they were okay.  John smiled.  He was still a pissed, yes, but they were okay.  For now.  Sherlock smiled back and his shoulders released some of their tension.

“What was that, yesterday?” John asked softly, feeling this might be his only chance.

Sherlock struggled for a moment, scrunching up his nose and mouth in a way John thought was pretty close to being adorable.  “My mind stagnates at boredom.  We finally have a case, a great one, the biggest case for-“ he gestured that it was impossible to describe the amount of time- “and to be stuck, trapped, waiting for the car to be found, and that _woman_.”  Here he visibly shuddered. 

John tried not to laugh.  “Was it the peach?” he inquired politely. 

“The peach,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, and the moment they caught each other’s eye they both broke out giggling. 

“Shhh, they’ll hear,” John said, nodding to the shield charm which was the only thing between them and the Guards in charge of the scene. It would be easier to stay angry with Sherlock if talking to him didn’t feel so natural, something he didn’t even need to think through.  

“The Guards noticing something?  That’ll be the day I retire.” 

Apparently did not stop him from being a twat though.

John did not find this as amusing as hoped.  “Hey.  You’ve already insulted me once, try to have some tact.”  He tried to keep his tone light but it was a few notes off, falling shy of accusative and landing at simply awkward. 

“Oh come on John,” Sherlock said, with a small smile on his face.  “You’re not a Guard.  Not really.  Not one of them at any rate.”

“What am I then?”  What did Sherlock see when he looked at him?

He mused for a second.  “A Healer first, a soldier a close second.  And with any luck we might make a detective of you yet.”  And, as was his want, he flounced round John and through the shield, leaving John to trail after him.  He was trying not to grin too widely as he stepped through the shield. 

Lestrade was already there, standing back from the general chaos happening around the found car and overseeing the collection of evidence.  He was scowling so it seemed like this was not going well.  John questioned the merits of throwing Sherlock into the mix.  Would he find something?  Yes.  Would he get yelled at?  Also yes.  Before he had time to stop him though, Sherlock had launched himself into this melee and shouts could be heard from both sides, the Fallen holding his own against the Guards. 

Lestrade looked at him with a blank expression as he wandered over to stand and watch.

“You two made up then?” he remarked casually.

John nodded.  “Yeah.  It’s all good.”

Lestrade nodded back.  Looked over to Sherlock.  Looked back.  Narrowed his eyes.  “You’re not sleeping with him are you?”

“Greg!”

“What?  It explains how you’re all chipper after both stropping off like operatic divas last night.”

John wished to protest that only one of them ‘stropped off’ but instead simply said, “We just talked.  Get your mind out the gutter.  We’re just flatmates.” 

“Okay, message received”  Lestrade said, putting his hands up and turning back to the scene.  A moment’s silence.  “But do you _want_ to be sleeping with him?”

John sighed and stalked over to where Sherlock had finished harassing everyone and was peering into the foot-well of the driver’s seat.  He was not avoiding the question.  It was just inappropriate.  Obviously. 

Sherlock’s only acknowledgment of his arrival was passing him a pair of gloves from the depths of his pockets.  He may go rogue sometimes, but prevented anything from compromising the investigation.

“Alright Mary Poppins,” he muttered as he put down his coffee and put on the gloves. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, distractedly, trying to look under the seat without touching anything.  It was a strange angle to be holding a conversation at.

“It’s a film.  She’s got a bag that- and you’re not listening.”  He wondered what Sherlock was obsessing over.  It was like watching a bloodhound sniff out a scent, once they locked on it was difficult, yet not impossible to distract them away from it.  It was also perhaps a way to maximise the drama, plotting moves to truly put on a magic show that was finding evidence.  This was demonstrated by the calm way Sherlock darted his hand under the seat and produced a feather with a flourish. 

A black feather. 

Sherlock looked at John expectantly. 

“Proves it’s the car we were in yesterday?” he tried.  Sherlock was not impressed by his efforts.

“Knew that anyway.  Number plate.”

“Could have switched the plates.”

“All that trouble John, really?  Also, if they’d switched the plates, how do you explain this, which you clearly think is mine?”  Sherlock shook the feather disdainfully, as if his wings would ever disobey him by moulting like a common Labrador.  He placed it into a clear plastic bag which had been produced from the never-ending pockets.

“It _is_ yours,” John said, despite the uneasy feeling he was about to be proved wrong.  Sherlock was the only person with black wings here _and_ he’d been in the taxi yesterday. 

“No,” Sherlock said slowly, drawing out the o.  John hated this stupid guessing game charade they had to go through but it made Sherlock happy to show off he was the cleverest in the room.  Or driveway. 

“It has to be, who else has-” John stopped. This was why they did it, so that John could experience the same “Got it!” moment as Sherlock did, albeit at a slower pace.  And what a moment it was.  Because if it wasn’t Sherlock’s that had _implications_.  There was only one other explanation.  Lestrade was going to have an aneurysm. 

Sherlock’s smile was the dictionary-definition of smug.  “Who else indeed.  I think this might have just proved my theory John.”

“What theory?” Lestrade said appearing behind them.  “You didn’t mention he had a theory,” he accused John. 

“If you think I know anything about all this then I’m sorry to say you don’t know me at all,” John said.

Lestrade looked ready to argue the point.  However Sherlock, annoyed at the interruption to the victorious unveiling of aforementioned theory, sighed loudly.  “Please _do_ continue with your riveting conversation, but when you’ve finished, I _have_ just caught you a murderer so if you want any more information...”

John and Lestrade both resisted the urge to roll their eyes. 

“Go on.  Show off then,” John said, smiling.  Sherlock’s observational abilities were always fascinating to watch unfold, like watching a mosaic being made, each piece of evidence having its own place in the bigger picture. 

“This,” he said, shaking the bag with the feather, “isn’t mine.  Watch,” here he shook his wings out, causing the Guards behind him to jump out the way.  “They don’t just _fall out_ , it would be chaos otherwise.  _However,_ it is from-”

“How do you _know_?” Lestrade cut in, face blank.  John looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.  _Told you he didn’t trust you_.

“Apart from the demonstration they don’t fall, length, weight, colour markings, energy register.  Go test it in your lab but I’m willing to bet my wings that it isn’t mine.  It’s also not another angel, the colour makes that obvious.”

“Not a manufacture colour?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Dyes taste differently.” 

“Tell me you did not put that in your mouth,” John demanded.  Sherlock looked vaguely guilty but was masking it with a haughty ‘ _I’m Investigating’_ expression.  “ _When_?” John asked exasperated.  He’d been two footsteps away from Sherlock since they’d found the evidence, only stopping to argue with Lestrade for two seconds.

Lestrade cut in.  “So, you think another Fallen’s within the Council’s limits,” he said cautiously.

“Obviously.”  Sherlock said it as if he’d come to the conclusion weeks ago, which thinking about it, perhaps he had. 

“But the effort to get here, just to commit a _war crime_ -”

“-Yes, and Fallen’s are amongst the most law-abiding of citizens.  Oh wait, no they organised a rebellion that caused them to descend to the pits of the cosmos and then created a conflict so large society as we knew it in the afterlife had to be radically altered.  But yes, I’m sure they’ve learnt their lesson, that is clearly a bird feather in a random taxi by an abandoned house, the murderer will turn himself in eventually, and all of this has been a delightful misunderstanding.” 

Sherlock and Lestrade glared at each other for a minute, Lestrade wanting to remind Sherlock it was _his_ crime scene and Sherlock wanting to rant for several minutes on the fact Lestrade was wasting time.  Lestrade broke first, sighing, then crossing his arms.  Sherlock took this as a sign he would finally take him seriously. 

“There’s several questions still left to answer however.  First, how did they remain undetected when they got here?  I believe Mr Faber brings us that solution.”  Here he turned towards John.  “They’re taking on human’s appearances, invading their lives in order to be here.  Faber wasn’t driving our car at all, the Fallen was.”

John scowled.  The thought of being that close to their murderer was unsettling.  “Why’d they drive us to the scene?  Surely they’d know-”

“Could have been suspicious if he didn’t?” Sherlock paused.  “Or it’s a message...” he added, clearly becoming lost in thought. 

“But why kill them?  And why hang about, not run somewhere else?”  John would have thought the first step would be to leg it as far away from the scene as possible and in the afterlife, they could have gone very far indeed.

“The database would flag up if someone wasn’t meant to be here, it’s why we have it in the first place.  Plus the taxi company would eventually flag up Faber had gone rogue, they would have been trying to contact him about jobs.  They needed to become these people, live their lives.  Solitary people would be targeted meaning someone from inside is helping.  As for staying here, I would suggest something bigger is on the horizon that requires their presence here.”  Here Sherlock’s eyes caught John’s calculating something. 

“A war?” John asked and Sherlock shook his head. 

“Can’t say.”  His mouth twisted.  He did hate not knowing. 

“What about the wings?”

“Tore them off.  It’s difficult and painful, but not technically impossible, and if you’re willing to destroy for your day job self-mutilation wouldn’t be that far-fetched.  The feather under the seat would be a residue of that.”

“Shit,” was all John could reply.

“Quite.”

“So what next?” Lestrade interjected.  John leapt back guiltily.  During their conversation, he had gravitated into Sherlock’s personal space, leaning in towards his face.  There was a certain way Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with the possibility the case presented, his excitement infectious.  However, now Lestrade was glancing between them with a raised eyebrow and considering his earlier assumption, John stepped back. 

“You said they wouldn’t look the same by now,” John said to Sherlock who nodded.

“They’ll have taken on another personality by now.  We need to know if there’s been another murder, see if there’s a lead.”  Sherlock looked ready to run off again and John was determined not to have a repeat of yesterday. 

“We still don’t know the significance of the symbol either,” Lestrade added. “Or why they ditched the car,” John said.  He couldn't tell who looked more upset about this lack of an answer, Sherlock or Lestrade.

“You understand why I’m worried?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“Yes.”

“You can’t run off and do your own thing.  I _need_ to know, otherwise the entire thing is pointless.”  Sherlock looked like he was going to refuse so Lestrade added “Otherwise no case at all and I’ll arrest you for interference in an active investigation.”

Sherlock sighed.  “Fine.  But I reserve the right to take any action necessary.”

“And I reserve the right to yell at you for it,” Lestrade said, equally as seriously.  Sherlock couldn’t help his lips quirking into a smile, just for a moment.  _Saves me from yelling_ , John thought, smiling too.  Working together made his life easier, and who knew, maybe they’d be friends by the end of this.  He glanced up and down the road, the questions about the case still rattling in his head.  There was no doubt Sherlock would work it out but there was no harm in thinking about these things. 

Perhaps it was these thoughts that prompted his revelation.  Perhaps it was simply being in the right place at the right time.  Perhaps he wanted to impress Sherlock a little. 

Whatever it was, when he looked down the far side of the road, and saw a sign pointing towards a tube stop, he sensed... _something_.  Not a revelation, or an epiphany, but somehow it seemed important.  He must have been staring at it intently, as Sherlock stopped mid-planning with Lestrade to follow his gaze.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Just, might explain about the car?  And there might be footage I guess,” he said, shrugging, unable to pin down his exact thoughts other than the tiny part that was flashing _clue_?! 

Sherlock sounded ambivalent.  “Could be useful, maybe set one of the Guards on it, it’ll keep them occupied (a “Hey!”from Lestrade was ignored by both).  But why go near surveillance when-”  He stopped dead, his eyes widening.  Upside down triangle,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s shoulders.  He looked ecstatic, like his mind was galloping a hundred miles a minute to fit this new information in, to see all of its ramifications.  John couldn’t help feel a little smug, despite not knowing what the hell he was on about.

“Is he...broken?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed and let go.  “No, I’m talking about the symbol, _obviously_.  It’s not just a symbol.  It’s a _direction_.”

John blinked, surprised his hunch had been correct and might have possibly solved both his questions in one go.  It couldn’t be that easy surely?  But it did fit.  “It’s a literal sign?”

Lestrade was still confused.  “What are you talking about?”

“An underground network Greg.  A literal underground network,” John said, shaking his head.  Subtly was not the art of the Fallen apparently. 

This was demonstrated by the fact Sherlock was nearly jumping up and down at the news, stopped only by the fact he did not want to do so in front of the Guards. 

“You think there’s more of them here?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Can’t say how many but I’m sure this is not an isolated incident.”  At Lestrade’s obvious displeasure at the news that he was not dealing with a small tagging case but a possible new uprising, John decided to look on the bright side.

“You should be happy Greg.”  At his quizzical look, John grinned.  “We finally have a lead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three end notes: one this chapter is bloody long in comparison to the others- I'm not sure if this is the new normal because we're into the case or if it's a fluke but hopefully you enjoyed. Two, I'm not really happy with the ending line but I had it somewhere and it was weird to end it anywhere else so there you go. Three, I will attempt to get the next chapter up in a week but I don't have my usual weekend writing time so we'll see!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Creeps out of the woodwork* sorry about the delay on this chapter- a busy week followed by an ill week did not a lot of writing make. Hopefully have C8 up soon to catch up a bit.  
> Because of the above, this chapter hasn't been beta read very closely so please feel free to mention any mistakes or errors (as always)

Sherlock loved data. It was the one fuel John knew he could use to instigate action in him, even if it resorted to him yelling about people passing by the streets below their humble flat, scouring the newspaper for strange stories, or allowing there to be nine varieties of body part in the fridge.

This was the same impulse that could explain how John found himself on the upper level of the Guard station, staring at security footage.  Dull, fuzzy security footage.  If he had assumed his beat was boring, it was nothing compared to the mind-numbing torment that was watching the streets he had walked round, without even the calming effect of feet slamming into pavement to keep his mind occupied.

John was not alone in his boredom- Lestrade was there, Sherlock having fun reminding him that he wanted to be involved at _every_ stage, and in desperation Lestrade had roped a very reluctant Sally Donavon in to help as well. 

Their task was simple. Find a tube station. Check to see if there was a symbol near the tube station.   Send Sherlock the location.  If it seemed fresh, scan back through the footage until you found the person responsible for tagging the wall.  Clip and send to Sherlock.

The Fallen himself was either a visual learner (the Guards did a course at the beginning of their training- unsurprisingly, he was a practical man himself), or had a dramatic urge that must be adhered to with as many stereotypes as possible.  Evidence?  In the middle of the room they had commandeered, there was a sprawling virtual map showing the sprawling metropolis that was the afterlife.  John was certain that if the time on this case wasn’t more pressing, Sherlock would have commissioned a real parchment scroll map for the thrill of it. 

Virtual was easier however, allowing for the expansion of their dimension to be recorded in real time.  A new bit was made on earth? Create a new bit in the afterlife.  It was like the galaxy expanding into nothingness, apart from here the humans didn’t give a shit as to _how_ so long as their favourite recreational establishment, whether it be a club, a coffee shop, or a pub garden, was installed.  It always was, and so people were pretty happy.  Despite the vastness of the land depicted, the map was incredibly detailed.  Apparently, the cartographers here liked a challenge and had nothing but time on their hands.  Upon the map, Sherlock was meticulously crossing off tube links, colour coding them as they called them out.  Some were easy to figure out.  Yellow= Symbol spotted.  Blue= Nothing there.  But then there were reds and purples and one circled viciously in green which made sense only to the angel that was scribbling them down.  Instead of being sensible and moving the map to the edge of the table however, Sherlock was having fun launching himself across the table and sprawling himself across the surface to reach the other edges, and John?  Well John had Thoughts on that but once again, a practical man, he did as he was told and ignored the stretch and reach of Sherlock’s limbs in his tight-fitting clothes because, as the humans would say, Jesus Motherfucking Christ.  Thus, security watch although tedious, at least gave him a focus.

He was ignoring Sherlock for other reasons, namely that he was still pissed at the Fallen for being a complete arsehole which he hadn’t forgotten about but had set to one side for the sake of the case.  Also, maybe because when Sherlock had laid out his sparse plan, both him and Mallory had said “brilliant” at the same time. Sherlock had only smiled at John though and given Mallory the job of run around which mainly involved him bringing coffee and pens to the room and then sitting quietly in the corner watching everyone else work.  John swore to himself he was not in competition with anyone else for Sherlock’s attention and so denied that he was happy about Mallory being relegated to the side-lines. 

What they were attempting was not a small task.  For, despite the tube being a relatively recent invention in the history of the universe, humans were tricky bastards.  There were multiple underground railways in use across the world at any one time, and they were constantly updating the bloody things, so each new section of city had a new part of the tube line.  These were dated according to the year any major updates took place, meaning the entire London side dated back to 1863, New York to 1904.  More tubes, meant more tube stops, meant more monitoring, meant more of John wanting to bash his head against the opposing wall.  Sherlock insisted on a small team however.

“If they suspect anything they will burn the whole system. Do you really want to be starting from scratch?” he had asked Lestrade, who looked visibly ill from the thought.  Leads in cases were precious things and so they had set to work just shy of pinky promising not to say anything.

The rainy afternoon slipped into a clear night and John’s eyes started to protest at the attention he was paying the screen.  It was when his mouse hand had gone numb from the lack of circulation he realised that if he did not move soon, he may never move again.  When he stood up to wander round, he just stopped himself from falling straight over, as his legs had decided to go to sleep and his joints seized with the inaction. 

“Anyone want anything?” he asked as he turned and stretched.  Sherlock glanced over at him but quickly turned his attention back to the map.  That was a no.  The others all muttered something that could be construed as a call for coffee and so John went in search of the cafeteria and thus the shitty self-service machine.  A shitty self-service machine which was not working and, being as it were about 11pm, there was no staff around behind the counter to help out.  He weighed up his options.  Either he left to go and find coffee which would cause Sherlock to kill him, or he return empty-handed and cause a riot amongst the others, causing him to kill Sherlock for not following work-day hours.  He could probably take Sherlock- the height would only go so far in being an advantage and John was sure he could turn it into a hindrance.  His quest continued.

Luckily, businesses had not failed to notice this time-poor, energy dependent consumer base that was the Guard units, and so many places kept open into the early morning hours.  That being said, the employees were not exactly thrilled at this prospect, the barista’s face visibly pinching at the sight of him when he entered a deserted coffee shop a few minutes down the road.  Facing the boredom of no work was preferable to having to serve someone, especially someone who wanted to order 5 drinks.  John threw his change into the tip jar and promised himself he wouldn’t return here in order to not incur more wrath from the staff.  He checked his phone and looked out to the street, a few people still wandering by, the city never really stopping.  The building directly in front of him looked like an office block, glass sliding doors leading into a foyer, the only light a green Fire Exit sign.  However, reflected in the glass was another sign.  A sign John had been staring at for the past few hours. 

The Underground entrance to St James Park station. 

How he hadn’t noticed it before was beyond him.  Perhaps staring at them for so long had made his eyes immune to them, skipping over them like so many parts of his route.  Perhaps the lure of coffee had blinded him to all else.  Now he had noticed it, he went through his mental checklist.  Sherlock would be proud if nothing else, and it was a way he could justify the trip.  Practical re-con or something. 

The mental checklist was not very long, as their search was quite niche.  Is there a symbol?  Can you see who tagged it?

There was also his Guard checklist, which was not so much as a rule-book but a gut feeling.  Are people acting suspiciously?  Is everything working as it should?  Does everything _feel_ right?

The Guard side of his brain, the one honed in combat, was decidedly not happy about something.  John scanned the scene again, trying to figure out the reason he was suddenly on edge.  He stretched out his left hand until the knuckles crunched, then scrunched his hand into a fist again.  In his right, he clutched his phone.  He stood straight and stilled, as if he could slow down the world for easy viewing like the footage earlier so long as he stopped too.  The buildings opposite had fronts of glass so no symbol there.  But his gaze kept on jumping over something, as if there was a glitch, a jump cut just behind the railings that surrounded the stairs to the tube.  What _was_ that? 

“Coffee,” the barista said, and John jumped.  He realised he must have looked strange focussing on across the road, like a cat getting ready to pounce on thin air.   Nodding thank you, he tried to pretend that he was a normal angel just getting coffee.  The barista responded with an ‘It’s above my pay grade to care’ shrug and turned back to their phone.  There were some perks to living in a replica capital city.

He wandered out of the shop and surveyed the scene again.  The jump in vision was being caused by an alleyway, the deeper black causing it to disappear.  This shouldn’t have been a surprise or anything to note, the city full of hideaways and side streets but it couldn’t hurt to check it out, for reassurances sake.  Trying not to be so obvious, he tried to make it seem as if he was headed in the direction of the tube stop anyway, 4 cups balanced on a tray, one in his hand.  The hit of caffeine was blissful.  The tube stop seemed to be perfectly ordinary, a couple of people still meandering down into the depths of the city.  There was the usual amount of graffiti, personal tags crowding each other for dominance of the prime real estate facing the road. 

Once again, John stated to himself that he did not believe in an angelic sixth sense.  The fact that he decided to double-check the alley was just him doing his job properly.  This meant the fact that there happened to be a symbol a few feet into the corridor, in bright yellow paint no less, was simply good luck.  It appeared fairly fresh, not being overlapped by any new tags or with the usual grime, A4 in size.  Small enough to be innocuous, someone’s identifying tag, unless you knew what you were looking for. 

John froze when he saw it, suddenly uncertain about what to do next.  His mind stuck on the fact he was holding coffee and was therefore defenceless.  What if the tagger was close by and saw him?  He couldn’t pass himself off as a graffiti connoisseur.  Sherlock would know, if only he was here. 

John shook his head.  He didn’t want to believe Sherlock was right when he called him an idiot but sometimes he made himself wonder if there wasn’t a grain of truth in it.  Please let the coffee kick in soon. 

He carefully set the coffees down by his feet.  He rang Sherlock.  Sherlock, hating phone calls, did not answer.

John sighed and carefully took a photo of the sign, tongue stuck out in concentration. He was grateful he was hidden from view for that part and that the streets were empty enough no one walked past. 

He was going to send the photo with the message, ‘See anything you like?’ until the _other_ meaning caught up with his sleep-addled mind.  He balked at the idea, Lestrade’s teasing already ringing in his ears and so went with a simple **You need to see this. St James Park Station- JW**.  While waiting for a reply, he tried valiantly to stop blushing.  He didn’t mean it like that.  No really!

His phone buzzed and for a split-second John thought that Sherlock had somehow read his mind, despite Sherlock’s protests that it would be cheating and was also impossible. 

**On our way- SH**

Sounded like the whole gang was coming then.  John wondered how hard he’d get hit if he started calling Greg’s car the Mystery Machine.

To distract himself, he peered further into the alley.  He knew he couldn’t go further in without back-up, the shadows making him too much of target, at the mercy of whoever may be at the opposite side.  However, from what he could see it was a regular alleyway, no nefarious plots, underworld cults, or black-bedecked wings in sight.  Unable to single-handedly take down whatever it was they were chasing, he decided he should probably stand out in the street to flag down the gang.

He propped himself under the closest street light, and waited, one eye on the alley to see if anyone disappeared through it.  The image of the cracked pavement from a day before (two days before technically- could it really have been so recent?) was still evocative.  It suddenly hit John that there were very few people he could trust.  He wasn’t one for trust before, but at least it was an _option_.  That barista for instance.  Not a likely target to be a Fallen in disguise but on the other hand, gave a good view of the alleyway and tube station, could work odd hours, shift work so they probably only needed a week’s notice and if they didn’t turn up one day they could be replaced.  Someone getting suspicious?  Kill a guy, put on a new face, and go to work. 

When they arrived, John was still glaring at the coffee shop.  Sherlock racing ahead like a humanoid bloodhound, he practically barrelled past John and into the alley.  Not expecting anything else, John simply grinned at Lestrade and said, “Suppose you’ll be needing this.”  The other angel accepted the cup gratefully.  His collar was askew, his grey hair winning a battle with gravity, and he looked, for want of a better word, shattered. 

“Whatever you’ve found better be good.  I was going to have a nap.”

“He didn’t tell you?  Sofa’s bad for your back anyway old man,” John said grinning.  Technically in the spectrum of forever they were the same age because, you know, _eternity_ and the fact existence was a tricky subject for angels anyway, but John had decided that in human terms, Lestrade looked the oldest and so he was allowed to make all the jokes he liked.  Served Lestrade right for Mother Henning him. 

“Course he didn’t tell me.  When does anyone ever tell me anything?” Lestrade said bitterly into his coffee.

“I tell you things all the time!” John protested. 

Lestrade shot him a look.  “Since when?  All I ever got was football scores and the weather.  Not even that since Hells’ Angel over there turned up.”

“Still feeling jealous?”

“Fuck off John,” Lestrade said good-naturedly.  He sighed.  “It’s too early for this.”

John nodded wisely.  “It’s your age.”

“Look will you-”  Whatever reprimand Lestrade was about to give him was cut off by Sherlock blustering out of the alleyway again. 

“It’s not there.” 

John blinked at him.  “What do you mean it’s not there?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Before he could launch into his “I don’t like repeating myself speech,” John marched over to the offending patch of wall. 

An offending patch of wall that was missing a symbol. 

“But it was here,” John said, swinging towards Sherlock.  “You know it was, I sent a photo.”  This defence was not only for Sherlock’s sake but also to prove to himself that he wasn’t losing it.

All of the thoughts: who, when, why, that were tumbling around his head came to a screeching halt as Sherlock cupped John’s head in his hands.  For a wild, irrational second John thought he was going to kiss him.  His eyes nearly fluttered shut in anticipation before he caught hold of himself (helped in no small part by Lestrade sighing dramatically about a foot away). 

“John, I need you to remember everything you saw.”  Sherlock’s voice was low and soft and so very, very close. 

Mesmerised, John tried the hardest he ever had to simply _think_.  Sherlock didn’t do long winded sentences or unnecessary descriptors, but he also demanded precision and no detail was too irrelevant if he had a hunch.  It was a lot of information to sift through.

“Err so the coffee machine broke so I went to the coffee shop over there.  No one else in the shop, just me and the barista.  About three people walked past?  None suspicious enough to note.  Noticed the station, thought it would be worth checking out.  Oh, my eyes kept on jumping over this alley, so I decided to look here as well.  Symbol was as in the picture, probably my eye height, about A4 size, bright yellow.”  Sherlock looked about to speak so he hurried on.  “No people around, no one walked past the alley while I was here.  I looked further down but as far as I was aware no signs of life.  I took the picture, texted you, then went to stand under the streetlight.  Didn’t see anyone enter or exit the alley while I was waiting.”

The meagre information made him frown.  So much for most observational in the class.  Sherlock didn’t look thrilled either but even in his frustration John noticed his hands were gentle around his face.  If he moved his head slightly, tilted it to one angle, his lips would brush up against fingertips. 

“They may have seen you.  Could burn the system,” Sherlock said, lost in thought.  John’s thoughts came crashing down.  Fuck but that would mean-

“We have to start again?”  He didn’t intend to sound so crestfallen.  At this proximity it was impossible to not notice Sherlock’s eyes soften.  They really were quite lovely.  Even if he was looking at a complete moron who had managed to fuck up the biggest investigation he had ever been allowed on. 

“Or it was in the wrong place,” Lestrade said, pointing with his coffee cup to the opposite side.  Both of them jumped apart at the sudden intrusion and stared at Lestrade.  The only word to describe him was smug.  “Not the only detective here Watson,” he jibed, “Now untangle yourselves, we’ve got an investigation to do.”  With that, he wandered off across the road, whistling. 

They ran to catch up with him.  Sherlock must have spotted what Lestrade had seen before him as he was suddenly enthralled and moved ahead as John fell in step with Lestrade. 

“Just flatmates my arse,” Lestrade said to him quietly.  He was clearly struggling not to laugh.

John stuck his tongue out at him because it was nearly midnight on a cold street in London and he didn’t know what else to do.  Because what the hell was that?  It was good.  It was for the case.  Did he want it to happen again?  Irrelevant surely because Sherlock didn’t think anything of it.  Did he?  No, no he couldn’t.  For fuck’s sake Watson, concentrate.

Sherlock had stopped and appeared to be consulting the map of the surrounding area posted near the stairs.  This was odd on many accounts, mainly because Sherlock often boasted of having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the city, and many places beyond.  It was a skill he had enchanted John with one cloudy afternoon when neither of them had anything better to be doing than wandering around, diving through side streets and back-roads, all with Sherlock pointing out oddities, like a deranged tour guide.  “Arson destroyed this building two decades ago, you can tell by the panelling.  There was a hidden library down those steps, shame the woman moved on but it was getting too popular.  You can get to Paddington from here without seeing a single door.  Best Vietnamese take-away in the city.”  (John could verify this last point.  It was pretty amazing.) 

“Got lost?” John asked as Sherlock continued to peer at the tiny building marker that denoted where the Guard Officers were. 

“Look left.  Between those buildings.  _Casually_.”  This last bit was hissed as it was clear John was going to simply swing round and take a look. 

“Only following directions, jeez.”  He scratched the back of his neck and glanced around.  There didn’t appear to be anyone paying attention to them but obviously he may have been burned before.  He could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes which made John want to point out that not all of them could be performers because not all of them were so _bloody dramatic_.  Lestrade dutifully sipped his coffee and thought nothing at all.

As he looked were bid, John saw what the others had.  It was less noticeable in the crowd of other marks and with the glare street and shop lights, but sure enough, there was a small, bright yellow symbol on the wall.  It was further along than where the original symbol had been. 

“Fresh paint.  You were looking the other way, to where the offices are.” 

“You’d have thought they’d have hidden it better.  CCTV will pick them up,” Lestrade said. 

“What’s the use of CCTV when you have an almost unlimited number of guises you can pick up, if only your immoral enough.”

“Wait, so I’ve spent all day sending you clips of suspects for no reason?”

“It kept you busy,” Sherlock quipped, and John was about to start yelling when Sherlock raised a placating hand.  “It rules out people.  Plus, I am not convinced they know of us yet and so those people are still suspects.”  John thought about it and then nodded, mollified. 

Lestrade huffed and hunch down into his coat.  “Think they’ll be able to notice us soon enough, three blokes not even able to read a bloody map.  Can we go somewhere a bit warmer?” /

Sherlock sighed, clearly loath to leave their clue behind. 

“Look, so far, these have only popped up where crimes have already happened right?  They keep close enough to the tube lines for an easy escape route, part of your network thing yeah?  So maybe we should head back and check what’s been happening round here today.”

“Be weird if we hadn’t heard anything, it being so close,” John pointed out and Sherlock smiled at him.

“Very odd John.  Very odd.”

John frowned.  “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“The ‘we’ve both had the same idea face’.”

“But we have.”

“No, we haven’t which is why I find the face so irritating.”

Sherlock sighed.  “We’ve always been one step behind.  Lestrade’s shown that with his faulty logic.  Just because we happen to find crime scene and symbol together does not necessarily mean they’re connected in that way, it’s only one explanation, one created without all the facts.”  He sounded like he was explaining things to a toddler.  “We’ve been working backwards.  However, with _this_ , we can work forwards.”  He sighed at their blank faces.  They were nearly they, they just needed- “When a Fallen comes through a portal, what’s the one thing they need?  A _disguise_.  The symbols might not be markers of crimes that have happened.  What if they were symbols of crimes that were _going_ to happen?”

“They choose victims from the tube lines.  Scope them out somehow, know their routes, then land close enough to follow?” Lestrade said, nodding as he worked through it. 

“You think someone’s going to be murdered here tonight?” John asked seriously.  Both him and Lestrade had straightened up at Sherlock’s words, ready for action. 

“It’s a possibility,” Sherlock said, looking serious too, but with an edge of excitement which was missing from John and Lestrade. 

“Stakeout?” Lestrade said, resigned to his fate of not sleeping. 

Sherlock merely grinned, as Lestrade reached for his phone and dialled. 

“Donavon.  Yeah, we’ve got something.  Yeah, nesting protocol.  Alright thanks.” 

“Nesting protocol?  Are we suddenly in America?” Sherlock asked.

“Look, just shut up alright,” Lestrade said tiredly, scrapping a hand over his face.  “I’m going to go get the car, we’ll be able to keep it near those parked ones down there so we ‘re not as noticeable and it’ll give us a good vantage point.”  He said the last bit to himself, already moving down the road.  “Stay there,” he shouted back to the other two.  Their matching innocent “who me?” expressions made me him smile as he walked away.

Greg was not, as the other two seemed to think, stupid.  And he knew the sight of two people falling for each other when he saw it.  It might do them both good, so long as they didn’t destroy each other on the way round.  Quite sweet in a way.  Definitely a good story by the end of this, if they would actually recognise what the other was putting out. 

It was as he rounded the corner that he realised he was going to be stuck in a car, possibly for several hours with both of them. 

Oh shit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently chapters are now fortnightly (every two weeks) but they're about double the size of the early chapters so I guess that levels out??  
> Anyway, as a thank you for your patience, this chapter develops both the plot and... let's say John and Sherlock get closer...

While Lestrade contemplated the next few hours and whether or not they would be the straw to break the camel’s back, the camel in this case being John and Sherlock’s obvious interest in one another, the two in question were attempting to “look casual”.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when someone instructs you to ‘look casual’, looking casual is the last thing you can do.  In fact, you become the most obvious person the world has ever seen.  A sequined, rainbow dress, feather boa and flashing sign saying “LOOK AT ME” could not make you more obvious.  Leaning against something becomes impossibile, you forget entirely what to do with your hands, and conversation is about as easy and delicate as an elephant performing spinal surgery. 

It did not help that it was fucking freezing and all John had on was his flimsy jacket.  The steps went something like this: Hands in pockets, out of pockets, folded across chest, weight on one foot, weight on the other, lean against wall, no, legs crossed, no balance, feet apart, don’t look at anyone for too long but also don’t immediately glance away, that could be suspicious, did he look suspicious, surely someone must have clocked them by now...

“What _are_ you doing?” Sherlock said as John fidgeted.  Ever collected, Sherlock was leaning against the shop front, one foot propped up, the only sign of agitation being the way he drummed his fingers against his knee. 

“It’s impossible to act casual when someone tells you to act casual,” he stated. 

Sherlock looked disapproving.  “Clearly.” 

“It is!” John said, determined to prove his point.  “Look, what if I said don’t picture a pink elephant.  Now you’re picturing a pink elephant.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you told me not to!”

John smirked.  “Liar,” he said.

Sherlock looked faux-offended.  “You wound me John.”

“What were you thinking about then?”

“Regular elephants.”  Sherlock said it as if his thought process should be obvious.  John couldn’t help laughing. 

“Ah yes, because they are so different, the grey and pink elephant.  Clearly you have disproved my point.”

Sherlock huffed.  “It’s not my fault you chose pink.  You could have had any colour elephant you liked.”

“Like Elmer.”

Sherlock frowned.  “Who?”

“Elmer?  Elmer the elephant?” John prompted.

“Yes, because repeating the name really does help me remember this thing I’ve never heard of before.”

John resisted the urge to sigh.  “I’d forgotten about your lack of culture.  It’s a kids book.  About a multi-coloured elephant.”

Sherlock paused for a second.  He was looking at John as if he had just announced he was going to drink the Thames.  “ _What_?”

“The colours were in a chequered pattern.  Patchwork.” John announced, his memory of the book hazy. 

“You’re making this up.”

“Nope.  Not like you.”

“I have _never_ -“

“-Now that’s a lie.” John cut him off. 

Sherlock looked a bit sheepish.  “Fine, I concede the point.  But I have never, not once in my life thought of a pink elephant,” he declared grandly.

“What a conversation I must be missing.”  Sherlock and John both jumped.  Lestrade had retrieved the car and was leaning out the driver window, grinning.  “Good to know you’ve both been keeping watch.  Now get in, and stop talking about wildlife.”

John got in the back seat, expecting Sherlock would want the front for a better view.  Therefore it was a surprise when the other back door opened and Sherlock slid into the middle seat.  Lestrade’s car was not massive and Sherlock seemed determined to stare out through the gap in the front seats, so their sides were pressed against each other from foot to shoulder, their wings overlapping.  John couldn’t have moved away if he tried, there being no space to move _into_.  Lestrade did not even try and hide his eye roll. 

“And what the fuck are you doing?” the Senior Guard asked. 

“I’m watching.”  Sherlock seemed fine with this state of affairs, lounging back in his seat, and staring out the window. 

“From back there?”

“I assure you I have perfect vision.”

“But there’s a perfectly good seat _here_ ,” Lestrade said, exasperated already. 

John could feel Sherlock shift uneasily.  “I’m afraid there may be a _small_ chance that a Fallen would recognise me, and seeing me here would probably alert them to the fact their little club has been discovered.  The Faber-Fallen may have recognised me but wouldn’t have known I was searching for the symbols, just the body.  Here, I have no such cover,” he explained, answering what would have been John’s next question. 

“So let me get this straight,” Lestrade turned round as fully as he could to glare at the bashful Fallen.  “You are choosing _now_ to tell me that you could be a liability in this case?”

“You weren’t going to solve it without me!  At least I know who I’m looking for,” Sherlock huffed. 

“Arguing is not casual,” John pointed out.  The others huffed but called a truce in the interests of the case, each promising to have strong words with the other later.  John was intrigued by how Sherlock knew the other Fallen, the question of his residency in the Council limits still a mystery, but this was perhaps not the time to ask. 

The car settled into a tense silence as Lestrade parked the car and cut the lights on the quieter end of the street, in a gap between streetlights.  John tried his best to fold his arms but pain lanced through his shoulder.  The cold of the evening had seeped in without him realising, the excitement of the case taking precedence over mild-discomfort.  However, his shoulder was clearly fed up of being subtle and began protesting in earnest.  The prospect of sitting hunched for several hours was daunting.  Sherlock noticed him wincing ( _because how could he not, they were so close he could feel Sherlock breathing_ ). 

Sherlock leaned in, so they were impossibly close, his lips nearly brushing John’s ear.  For a wild second John thought he was genuinely going to kiss him until he spoke softly. 

“You can go home, if you want.”

Well that was the mood ruined. 

“It’s fine.  I can still work,” John said tersely.  He wasn’t incapable just because his shoulder seized up sometimes.  All they were doing was staring out a bloody window.  The shared body heat in the car would help.  Hopefully. 

“I know,” Sherlock replied, his voice still soft.  “And I’m glad you want to stay.  I just, know it hurts, sometimes.”  He almost stammered the last bit, unusually unsure. 

John glanced over at him.  If he turned his head fully, he could rest his forehead on Sherlock’s.  It was a tempting idea.  Instead he simply smiled, and said, “I’m fine.  Really.  I’ll let you know if it gets bad.”

There had only been a few times over the past few weeks that John’s shoulder really gave him trouble. It was always at night, when the flat grew unusually cold, the old building not having proper insulation and the weather in this Other London being as unpredictable as the original.  The pain would often jolt him out of a nightmare, mixing with it horribly, the tangle of physical and imagined disorientating him.  He’d stay still for a minute, gathering the will to sit up.  Painkillers were kept close to the bed, so he would down two.  Shove slippers and dressing gown on, trudge downstairs.  Boil the kettle and shove the heating pack in the microwave.  Sherlock had, on two of these occasions, been fluttering around the living room, often with violin in hand.  They hadn’t spoken, although the first time Sherlock did raise a questioning eyebrow at the heating pack.  It wasn’t John’s fault they only had the pig design left, and not that it was any of Sherlock’s business, the soft pig’s ears were quite nice to run his fingers over, the repetitive motion soothing.  What John actually did was half shrug with his good side and slump into his chair, kneading the aching joint occasionally.  Sherlock had turned to his music stand and begun to play, though John did not believe he really needed to look at the music.  Then, when his eyes began to droop uncontrollably, and his shoulder had relaxed, he would stand up and shuffle off to bed again.  Sherlock had the uncanny ability to finish his piece just before this moment, and as he made his way to the stairs there was always a quiet “Good night John” following him.  Despite arising from such annoying and painful causes, it was one of John’s favourite times in the flat. 

Back in the car was much less comfortable but he still had Sherlock’s presence which would have to do.  He tensed at first, when an arm slid up around his back, in front of his wings and onto his shoulder, until the hand started kneading in a motion similar to his own.  Sherlock was not looking at John and John did not dare look at Sherlock.  It was fine.  Sherlock was just helping.  He wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was aware of it, or if it had just been an unconscious volunteering.  Anyway, there wasn’t really room for him to cross his own arm over to massage his shoulder and it did help with the pain a bit, so really this was a medical procedure, if you think about it. 

He was still awake, barely.  The long day was catching up with him, and the repetitive soothing motion of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder was like a cocoon protecting him from the outside world.  Trying to keep his mind on the case, he thought it was oddly like this afternoon, staring at an Underground station, apart from this was a live-feed rather than a recording.  No rewind button or zoom function, although that was what Sherlock was for, the Fallen never missing anything.  He was great like that, really great, just-

And with his thoughts rambling down the lovely tangent that was his flatmate and current pillow, he fell asleep. 

***

Lestrade was staring determinedly out of the window.  He had been staring determinedly out of the window for five minutes now.  He knew this because when he was not looking out the window, he was staring at the clock in his car, wiling time to go faster or for there to be a bank robbery, or for their suspect to leap out and attack them or _literally anything that would allow him to escape from the rom-com happening in the backseat_.  Like he was happy for John but there was the pressing matter of illegal Fallen’s running around in Council limits to consider, as well as the fact they were in _his_ car with _him_ in it.  He glanced in his rear-view mirror at the pair of them crammed into the back.  He conceded they did look oddly sweet, the Fallen sharply focussed on the outside world, body tense, apart from the gentle arm he had around John.  It had migrated from the opposing side when John had tipped into sleep and ended up with his face pressed up against Sherlock’s shoulder, his nose nearly pressed up against Sherlock’s neck.

Lestrade knew that John was not big on trust as a general rule and he had assumed anyone trying to get close to him would simply have to stick it out and break down the walls one by one, slowly but surely.  Then Sherlock swept in like a hurricane and now here they were, snuggled up, despite John’s protests that nothing had happened between them.  He still didn’t know what to make of the Fallen himself.  Brilliant, like John said, yes.  But there was a dangerous edge too, that John seemed to be running towards, one which Lestrade didn’t know if he could pull him back from. 

“Stop staring at me.”

That and his perceptiveness left nothing private.

“Not staring,” he said, not moving his eyes from the rear-view mirror.

Sherlock, in retaliation, didn’t stop looking out the window.  “What would you call this then?”

Lestrade considered.  “I’m _musing_.”

Sherlock snorted, jostling his shoulders, causing John to stir slightly.  However, his body had clearly decided it would take what sleep it would get and he sunk back under quickly.  Lestrade noted that Sherlock ran his hand soothingly up and down his arm, stopping just shy of shushing him. 

“You’d think it wouldn’t be comfortable,” Lestrade said, tilting his head to indicate. 

“A small advantage of warfare is you become accustomed to sleeping when you can rather than when’s comfortable,” Sherlock said softly, looking at what he could of John’s dozing face.

“You been?  To war?”

Sherlock shook his head gently.  “You?”

Lestrade was taken aback by the question.  If it didn’t have to do with the case, Sherlock seemed uninterested in finding out about the personal details of anyone other than John. 

“No.  But you already knew that.”

“John says it’s polite to ask questions about people’s lives rather than just deducing them.”  Lestrade smiled at that, unable to ignore the image of _John_ of all people telling Sherlock how to behave like a real person. 

“You don’t strike me as the type of guy who cares about polite.”

“No.  But John is,” he answered quickly.  Then, brain catching up with his speech, he added “He’s a lot easier to live with when he’s happier.  Less slamming of doors and noisy tea making.”

Lestrade simply nodded.  Of course that’s what he was meaning.  _Of course_. 

“I can imagine.  Lot of paper rustling.”

“It’s like a tornado in a printing press.”  Lestrade chuckled, and Sherlock smiled shyly, ducking his head slightly.  It made him look younger, more bashful.  Lestrade turned back to the window, not wanting to push Sherlock too far. 

It was Sherlock who broke the silence this time.  “You and John are close.”  It started as a statement but ended as a question.  Intriguing.  It wasn’t like Sherlock to sound uncertain. 

“I’d say so.”

“You’ve known him for a while.”  Again not-quite a question. 

“Yeah, since he joined the Guard.”  Lestrade thought back to that day, when a scrappy John Watson, separate from the others, had made a comment under his breath in the orientation meeting, not realising Lestrade was sat behind him.  Instead of telling him off, he had tried to stifle a laugh, and John had glanced at him, giving a tight smile.  That was the moment Greg had decided to take him under his wing, both literally and metaphorically. 

Sherlock nodded.  “He considers you a friend.”

Lestrade laughed.  “Took us a damn long time to get there but I reckon he does.”

There was a pause after this.  Sherlock seemed to be struggling to say something, his mouth opening and closing as the words refused to come out.  Clearly they were at the crux of the conversation.  It looked like he was going to give up entirely when he finally choked out: “He seems...happy?  Now?”  He was staring resolutely out the window now, not the focus of before but the determined stare of someone ignoring absolutely everything surrounding him. 

So that’s how he had done it, Lestrade thought, how he had wormed his way into John’s life and become it so completely.  

He smiled softly and said “Yeah, I reckon so.  Seems a lot better, within himself, these past few weeks.”  _These weeks since he met you_.  This seemed to mollify whatever was bothering Sherlock and he did the small, not-smiling thing.  He hunkered down a little more, tucking John tighter to his side, resting his head ever-so-gently on the top of John’s. 

Yeah, they were sweet Lestrade decided. 

He wasn’t even mad they were cuddling in the back-seat anymore. 

But he swore, if anything more advanced happened, they were both walking home.

***

Warm. 

That was John’s main sensation and to be fair, the only thing he really cared about.  Hunger, thirst, that could all wait because right now he was so comfy that he could reasonably never leave again.  Wherever he was.  Where the hell was he?

His eyes felt heavy so he tried to listen instead.  That’s what Sherlock would do.  _Hmmm Sherlock._ Now there was a lovely thought.  Not helpful right now though.  Concentrate John.  His head was resting on something soft yet too solid to be a pillow.  Smelt good whatever it was.  Earthy.  He could feel the occasional rumbling noise under his left ear.  Like a tractor.  Was he in a field?  _Ridiculous thought John_.  There was also a pressure running down from his head to the small of his back.  It sometimes paused to stroke his hair.  This was more difficult than Sherlock let on. 

He had to blink twice to keep his eyes open. 

The sight of dark wool filled his vision, exactly the shade of Sherlock’s coat.  This was, unsurprisingly, because it _was_ Sherlock’s coat.  Which meant that it was probably Sherlock he was sleeping on.  Which meant that it was probably Sherlock who was stroking his back as he slept. 

Interesting. 

It was at this precise moment that John’s brain finally came back online and he remembered everything about the previous several hours including but not limited to the fact that they were on a _fucking case_ , and he had fallen asleep on a stakeout.  So really, it wasn’t his fault that he shot up and nearly head-butted Sherlock in the nose on the way. 

“Shit, are you okay?” he asked, as his vision swam.  Luckily Sherlock had noticed him tense before moving and had dodged out of the way to successfully avoid a head-injury.  His expression was neutral as he nodded.  The weight of the arm that had been wrapped around him had disappeared and they were no longer pressed up against one another.  John felt very cold suddenly and shrugged his jacket closer. 

“Ah good morning sleeping beauty,” Lestrade’s cheerful voice sounded from the front of the car. 

“Ugh,” was the eloquent reply as all the blood rushed from his head.  He scrubbed a hand over his face and hair.  Hair Sherlock had been stroking.  Probably an automatic reaction.  “How long was I out?” was what he actually asked. 

“Nearly three hours.  If Marsden hadn’t once slept through an eight hour raid then I’d say you were on your way to setting a record for stake-out napping.”

John very much wanted Lestrade to Stop Talking.  “How are you still so... _chipper_ on no sleep?”

“Chipper?  That’s the word we’re going with?” 

“Give me a break Greg, I’ve just woken up.”

“Guard training and my delightful personality see me through.  Also, an industrial amount of coffee and almost constant insomnia doesn’t hurt.”  Lestrade turned to grin at him but the permanent bags under his eyes had sunken since yesterday.  Outside was still dark and the street empty. 

“Seen anything?”

“We’re still here aren’t we?”

“Aw, you mean you didn’t stay just for me?”

“John, I speak from a place of friendship here when I say that if we had advancement in this case, I would leave you in a ditch in rural Romania without a guide or translator.”

“That is... _very specific_.”

Lestrade shrugged.  “Well, I’ve had time to think.”

“We have movement,” Sherlock interrupted softly.  Both Lestrade and John followed Sherlock’s gaze to the Underground entrance.  A figure had emerged, shrouded in a hoody and tracksuit bottoms.  From this angle he looked like an ordinary guy just making his way home which would be entirely plausible if the tube hadn’t stopped running an hour earlier.  No one in the car dare move.  The figure had paused and was looking at a phone.  Orientating. 

Greg spoke quietly.  “You think-”

“I don’t _think_.  I _know_ ,” Sherlock said disdainfully, unable to stop himself from the correction.

“But he’s-”

“I’m waiting for-“

The figure swivelled his head and John had to resist the urge to duck down out of site.  The only thing more suspicious than being sat in a car, in the dark, in the early hours of the morning, would be to try and look like you weren’t in the car. 

“Yes!” Sherlock hissed gleefully. 

“So we should-“

“Slowly.  In fact, John, we’re getting out.”

Sherlock had to pull him back as John automatically went to open the door.  He should be more concerned by the fact that he would blindly follow Sherlock’s orders without pausing to think.

“ _Not yet_!”  Sherlock was still watching the now retreating figure, who had yet to turn into the other road. 

“But you said-“

“Now!”

And with that, Sherlock practically shoved them into the road.  It took all of John’s agility to remain upright without causing a scene and he swore profusely as he stumbled.  Sherlock, cat-like, had no such difficulty.

“Follow as back-up,” Sherlock ordered Lestrade and then John was jogging to keep up with him as he took-off at a quick pace. 

“You said-” John began, unwilling to let the point go because _Sherlock had said_ -

“Quiet John.”

“I’m just saying warn me next time.”

“Shush.”

John wanted to protest that no, Sherlock shush, but he simply sighed, kept quiet, and tried to concentrate on their quarry.  Sherlock slowed as they arrived at the turning.  John knew the instinct well.  If the target had clocked their appearance, then he could well be stood behind the corner waiting to jump them, but luckily, he had yet to notice.  John suddenly wished for the secrecy of Sherlock’s black wings which blurred into the darkness.  The white of his own reflected against the murky streetlights and were practically a neon sign saying “HEY.  YOU’RE BEING FOLLOWED.”  He tucked them closer to his body and hunched in his jacket. 

The route the mystery-Fallen was taking must have been written down for him step-by-step as no map would ever take them the twisting route he seemed to be following.  Sherlock, at ease with such diversions, seemed to follow easily, even when they lost sight of the hoody for a few moments, and John trusted him to keep them straight.  _Not bloody likely_ , the voice in his head replied snarkily and not for the first time John wished he could turn it off like a radio because _he was busy_.  They had lost Lestrade a while back, the figure favouring the labyrinthian footpaths. 

John realised they had been incredibly lucky up to this point, more so than should be allowed.  This was perhaps why he was not surprised at what happened next.

They got caught. 

It wasn’t difficult.  The figure had stumbled over something, a stray bit of rubbish or brick.  As he jolted to a stop so did they, automatically, and although Sherlock recovered his surprise quickly and kept going, John knew it was his own reaction which gave them away.  An actor, he was not.  Seeing John’s startled expression and then his admittedly terrible attempts at looking away like he _wasn’t_ staring, the figure bolted. 

No map was helpful here and what the figure had gained in surprise, he lost in his lack of geography.  Sherlock lead point, with John barrelling after him, barely avoiding slamming into Sherlock’s back as they took a few quick corners, trying to cut the other off. 

“You keep going,” Sherlock said, and without further explanation he booked it right.  John, dutifully, kept forward.  The tracksuit honed into view and John put on a burst of speed.  A tiny voice in his head hoped that this was the right person otherwise things were about to go horrendously south.  The other, much larger part of his mind was focussed on one thing. 

Stop the target. 

Despite his stockiness, John knew he could be quick, and he channelled that into a game he liked to call “Don’t let the target get to the end of the street”.  John found he was surprisingly good at this game, leaping and rugby tackling the figure sideways just before the end, just as Sherlock swung into view.  Ah, he was going to cut him off from this side, trapping the guy in the alley.  That made sense, John thought as he dragged the target’s hands behind his back and sat on him for good measure.  Speedy, yet surprisingly dense.  The target struggled for a bit before settling into his fate. 

Sherlock stood and stared for a few moments at the scene before him.  John knew that he must look slightly mad, his clothes askew and his hair plastered to his face. 

“You alright?” John panted at Sherlock. 

The Fallen, _his_ Fallen, simply blinked a few times.  John was beginning to worry that perhaps there was something wrong, maybe something had happened when he was out of view, when Sherlock replied. 

“Err, yes!  Yes, fine.  Good.  You… good,” he said, gesturing to John pining the target.  John frowned in concern, so Sherlock continued.  “Where’s…” he floundered for a minute before John realised who he was talking about.

“Lestrade?”

“That’s the one.”

“How did you forget his name?” John sighed, exasperated.

“Why would I need to remember it?  Anyway, you should ring him.”

“Me?”

“Yes.  You know him, you have his number.”

“Little tied up here Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed as if he was the most put-upon angel in the cosmos and stalked over to him. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” John yelped, as Sherlock shoved his hand in his pocket. To do so, instead of walking round, Sherlock leant over so his front was solidly on John’s back.

“I’m getting your phone to ring…” and then Sherlock mumbled something that he supposed was close enough to Lestrade.  John added it to his mental list of “To Teach Sherlock” which included such wonders as ‘Not Leaving Feet Next To Food Even If They Are Synthetic’ and ‘Mrs Hudson Will Murder You If You Leave Chemical Burns On Her Kitchen Table’.  These thoughts stuttered to a halt when John swore Sherlock brushed his nose across the nape of his neck when he retreated with his phone.  He glanced up but the Fallen was staring at the phone, tapping out a message.  Just an accident then. 

“You should call him.  It’d be quicker.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said, pocketing John’s phone.  That was the last he’d see of that then.  Presumably it would be drafted into an experiment of some kind in the near future, but that was a problem for future John.  Currently, of the two people he texted, one was currently on his way here and the other was stood before him.  At first he thought the suddenly narrowed eyes were on him, before he realised they were looking beyond him to the creature on the floor.  He was surprisingly quiet for a suspect, not even struggling anymore, just breathing quietly.  Waiting.  John knew better than to relax his grip.  He had landed heavily on his bashed up shoulder which was protesting violently and he wasn’t sure another flying tackle would have the same effect.  The suspect’s eyes were on Sherlock, surveying him, particularly lingering on the wings.  Maybe he thought that Sherlock would help, that he could use the fact he had those wings too as a bargaining chip.  He was about to get a surprise.

“What part of I have to be there while you investigate are you struggling to understand?”

Lestrade was _not happy_.  More…blindingly furious.

Sherlock glanced at him, breaking the weird staring competition he was engaged in. 

“You should be happy.  We’ve caught you another piece of evidence.”  Sherlock was now smiling viciously, a cat with a bird in its claws. 

“You sure he’s one of them then?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sounded amused.  “Oh I’m sure.  Everyone, meet Raz.”  John and Lestrade snapped their attention to him and then glanced at each other. 

_This could not be good._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is late but more plot! More domesticity! More swearing (not sure how that happened)!   
> Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated :)

John could not stop fidgeting. 

For one, he was in the back of a police car.  For two, he was sandwiched between a door and a suspected criminal.

When Sherlock had made his surprise revelation, he thought Lestrade was finally going to lose it.  Just straight up chaos which ended up with any or all of them in the hospital.  The angel was under a lot of stress after all and there was only so much he could be expected to take on.  Instead Lestrade’s face went through 19 distinct emotions from confusion all the way through to apoplectic, and then shuttered into neutral. 

“Fine,” was all he said before chivvying everyone into the car.  Raz, whoever he was, sat squished between John and Sherlock in the back, in case he tried anything, although the cramped conditions made it impossible to move at all without standing on someone’s foot or crushing a wing.  No one spoke.  No one looked at each other directly.  Peripherally, John was keeping an eye on Raz, who was watching Sherlock, who was staring out the window.  Sherlock, who had to be aware of the attention, was ignoring it and, if anything, looked mildly bored. 

John desperately wanted to talk (well yell) at him, to understand what the hell was going on before Lestrade had his chance to yell and question and completely _not understand_.  Because, despite the obvious signposts to the contrary, John truly believed Sherlock was genuinely working against the Fallen.  Sherlock wouldn’t betray him like that because…well he wouldn’t.  He could be rude and mean and careless, he’d shown that in his words at the neighbour’s flat, but _anyone_ could do those things.  It didn’t mean they were rude or mean or careless all the time.  So, no, Sherlock was not a bad guy here.  John just had to find a way to prove it.  Perhaps he’d busted Raz before.  Perhaps Raz was an informer.  John, with his not-so-secret love of spy fiction (both human and celestial), was rather taken with this idea and in the five minutes it took them to reach the station, he had convinced himself that all was well and that there was no nefarious reason behind Sherlock knowing their fucking _suspect_. 

From the way Lestrade opened the door and let them fall out onto the pavement, he was not feeling the same _bon homie_. 

Raz was taken into custody and set up in an interview room.  Behind the one-way mirror, a conference gathered.  Lestrade was pacing.  Sherlock still looked bored but had moved his hands to their steepled position, fingertips resting on his chin which betrayed his interest.  And John was ignoring both of them and started looking at their suspect.  Surprisingly, John realised this was the first opportunity to get a good look at him. 

Scruffy was the main descriptor.  His shaggy brown hair was in desperate need of some scissors, his two-piece tracksuit was frayed on the sleeve cuffs and there were had holes in the knees and elbows.  He was sat hunched, tilting forward with his cuffed hands clasped together.  All in all, he could have been here for possession or a bust-up in a pub, something low level that would go on a record but not worth an arrest over.  His eyes betrayed his purpose however.  They were sharply focussed.  They were also unerringly staring at Sherlock.  John glanced over to the switch, but it was stuck firmly on the mirror charm setting.  A lucky guess then.  Maybe murderously glaring was just his default setting.

“What do you see?” Sherlock asked quietly.  He hadn’t moved, only indicating he’d spoken with a sly look at John. 

“He looks ordinary.  Though I guess that’s the point.  There’s something…” John struggled to find the words.  Strange?  Weird?  Icky?  “There’s just something about him that’s off.  Not exactly a stellar legal attack by the police.”

Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgment.  “Do you think he’s a Fallen?”

“Yeah,” John said, shrugging at the obvious.  Sherlock didn’t do obvious. 

“Why?”

“Because you said he was.”  Now there was a sentence that needed unpacking.  His therapist would have a field day.  It made Sherlock smile though which counted way more than any eyebrow raises. 

“I’m flattered John.  Let me re-phrase.  How do I know he’s a Fallen?”

“You know him!”

“I would know even if I didn’t.”  Sherlock was very assured in his answer. 

John sighed and turned back to the suspect.  He was sitting weirdly.  Normally people sat in the chair in one of three ways:

  * Lolling back, a typical “I didn’t do anything bruv” arrogance concealing the sheer terror beneath;
  * Curled up in the chair, hands in lap, head down, prey before the predators;
  * Or slumped over the table, elbows spread out, head resting on hands, completely-at-ease-done-this-a-million-times-before style which meant, inevitably, they would attempt to bargain their way out of whatever trouble they were in.



There were small variations, obviously, but most fell into the rough categories easily.  Raz however was a combination of the three.  His legs were spread apart, as if he was lounging on the tube going home.  His spine however curved away from the back of the chair, pushing his torso forward.  The hands on the table were clasped and squeezing.  Something _hurt_. 

“His back.  They hurt from where his wings were removed.  _Shit, I sat on him_ ,” John swore.  Sherlock’s explanation had completely slipped his mind.  He must have been in agony. 

“You didn’t know,” Sherlock dismissed flippantly. 

“Yeah, but I should have.”

“He doesn’t seem too damaged.  No use trying to change the past.”  Sherlock’s eyes lost focus at the last sentence, the words turning inwards.  John was about to challenge him, and insist a medical professional examine Raz’s back, when Lestrade interrupted.  Whatever internal battle he was waging seemed to be resolved, or rather, he had a plan to resolve it.  Lestrade liked plans.  They made sense of a world which had recently turned bizarre. 

“Right.  I need _you_ ,” he jabbed a finger at Sherlock, “to tell me everything.  And for _you_ ,” he swung to John, “to keep quiet.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked like he was about to refuse outright when he caught John’s eye.  Something faltered in his expression, and he sighed, turning towards the glass.

“It’s not much of a story.  When the fall happened I ended up in the Other Place for a while.  Someone noticed the administrative error and I was brought back into the fold.  Nothing they can do about the wings but we can’t have everything now can we?” he said with a wry smile but the words were automatic.  Clearly this was not the first time this had been run through.  To John it seemed clear something still _hurt,_ although that could be him over-thinking things.  Whether he was imagining it or not, John’s heart felt like it was doing a strange squeezing motion, but Sherlock carried on.  “When I returned, because of my _connections_ to those less desirable, I was brought on to consult with the Guards at the most senior level.  This began to get tedious and I took on my own cases as well.  History over.” 

“An admin error?” Lestrade asked suspiciously.

“Not the first victim of bureaucracy, and I fear not the last,” Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade and shooting him a sarcastic smile. 

This did not satisfy the Senior Guard however.  “And Raz?  How does he fit in?”

Sherlock struggled to suppress a smile.  “One of the less desirable.  He can be clever, when he wants to be, but I doubt he’s the mastermind behind it all that you’re hoping for.  He might have given them the idea to tag the walls though.  Always was fond of spray paint,” he shot the last phrase at John, with a grin.

Lestrade stared at Sherlock.  All their lives would be made much simpler by him believing Sherlock’s story but he believed his work was about more than taking the simpler option. 

On the other hand, his options were severely limited and it was four in the morning.

“Alright.  But you’re not speaking to him.”

Sherlock’s head snapped to him.  “What?”

“We only have your word for it Sherlock, we need to get it verified before you can question suspects, and we don’t have that sort of time before we would need to release Raz.  You stay here, you listen, _you don’t engage_ and you can stay on the case.”

Sherlock did not take this well.  In fact, he advanced menacingly on Lestrade, over-enunciating his words.  John had noticed he did this when annoyed.  “I have aided your department in over 63 cases.  In none of those cases has my integrity been questioned.” 

 _His personality however_ … John stopped that thought before it really started. 

“How many of those cases pertained to Fallens?  How many involved Fallens you know personally?”

Sherlock’s eye twitched. 

“Stay here.  Both of you,” he said, glaring meaningfully at John.  Sherlock’s scowl deepened even further.  John didn’t want to know what he would be persuaded into.  Probably questioning the suspect while Sherlock ran him questions telepathically, or distracting Lestrade while breaking Sherlock in through the ceiling. 

The door slammed shut behind Lestrade.   Sherlock flexed his wings in frustration, and John half expected he would just whirl out the door anyway, but to John’s surprise, he simply flung himself into a plastic chair. 

In explanation, Sherlock muttered, “He’s not going to get anywhere with him.”

At first John thought this was just another dig at the Senior Guards effectiveness but there was another answer.  “He’s only going to talk to you.”

Sherlock just nodded and sat, bunched up in the chair, expression like thunder.  Presumably he was attempting to look brooding and angry, but the awkward angels of the chair thwarted his attempt.  John almost thought he looked adorable.  Almost. 

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not staring,” John answered automatically, despite the fact he emphatically was staring.  There were very few times in the day that he wasn’t staring at Sherlock, though he justified this by telling himself it was to avert disasters before they happened.  Sherlock tilted his head to stare at John staring.  John, caught, stuck his tongue out, eliciting a small smile from Sherlock.  In retaliation, Sherlock winked at him.  They grinned at each other, until the sound of the door on the other side of the glass swung open and shut.  Yep, he was definitely adorable. 

Sherlock stayed perched on his chair, whereas John leaned back against the wall.  As Sherlock had predicted, Raz was less than forthcoming with his answers.  There was the small problem that Lestrade did not have masses of information to go on.  Transferring what few records the Other Place kept from there to the Council limits was a nightmare which could last weeks and even then was unlikely to yield anything the Council didn’t already have on record.  So, from the few scraps that the Council kept from before the Fall, Lestrade attempted an interrogation.  The other spanner in an already tool-saturated works was that, as soon became apparent, Raz knew they had absolutely nothing to go on and so was keeping quiet. 

For example, when Lestrade opened with, “So _Raz_ is it?”, Raz simply opened his palms in a ‘If that’s what you think’ gesture.  It was the most expressive answer he gave.  Past that point, there were the merest hints at shrugs, eyebrow raises, and the occasional lip quirks. 

After a while, Lestrade leaned back in his chair and, as if pulled by a counterweight, Sherlock sat up.  John, who had become increasingly bored and had zoned out, pulled his attention back into the room opposite. 

Carefully, Lestrade said “I can’t let you speak to him.”  He stopped, the intent clear.  _Your move._

“Then we have no further business.”  John was startled by the voice, not for the crackling deep undertone that characterized Fallen’s speech, but by the sheer evidence of the voice itself. 

“So you do talk.”  Lestrade smiled.  He then stood up.  “I’ll come back to you later then, if that’s all you have to say for yourself.”  The door slammed shut behind him.  Raz did not seem to notice or, more accurately, didn’t give a shit.  His unsettling eyes, which had been settled on Lestrade, slipped back to staring at Sherlock.  As Sherlock eagerly stared back, it seemed a ghost of a smile crossed Raz’s face.  Maybe not a lucky guess. 

Despite everything that he knew before about the possible murderous-intent and the rebellion and fall, it was this smile that made John hate Raz.  Just in a split second his emotions changed from ‘Whatever’ to ‘I would like to send him back to the Other Place in a damn box.’  He didn’t get to smile.  He was in Guard custody.  Unsurprisingly, John’s restraint on these new-found emotions were about to be put to the limit by what happened next.

Lestrade ducked through the door to reiterate “Stay the fuck there,” before disappearing again. 

Sherlock, being Sherlock, waited for half a minute.  It was a show of intense restraint on his part.  Then he leapt from the room and appeared on the other side before John could even say “Please don’t.”

Of course, he also locked the door, so John could not follow.  Or so Lestrade couldn’t get in.  It was not clear which he intended. 

What was clear was that Lestrade appeared about six seconds after Sherlock faced Raz.

He was…not happy.

“What the fuck is happening?”

John just shook his head.  Lestrade didn’t actually want an answer. 

Something lodged in John’s throat as Sherlock sat carefully and faced the Fallen.  His nerves screamed _notgoodnotgoodnotgoodnotgoodnotgood_. 

“Raz,” Sherlock inclined his head. 

Suddenly Raz gave a lopsided smile.  “Alright Sherlock.”

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

He knew they knew each other.  Why was this freaking him out?  Hypothetical friendship was fine.  Evidence of such was upsetting. 

“Still getting into trouble I see,” Sherlock said. 

“Still getting out of trouble I see,” Raz said, looking disdainfully at Sherlock.  “The fuck are you dressed as?”

Sherlock glanced down at his usual button-down, suit, and coat combo.  “These are my clothes.  This is how I dress.”

“You look like a twat.” Raz helpfully informed him.  Lestrade thought John didn’t hear him cover a snort of laughter.  He was mistaken in this assumption.  At least he had scaled down from strangling Sherlock with his bare hands. 

Sherlock slumped back in his chair, irritated.  “What do you want Raz?”

“Here to give you a message aren’t I?”

Sherlock’s hands flexed but he kept the rest of his frame slouched.  “From who?”

“See can’t tell you that now can I?  Would ruin the surprise.”

Sherlock leaned in.  “They have a surprise for me?”

Raz sighed.  “Look will you just let me talk?  I can say certain things and I can’t say others otherwise, I ain;t going to exist for much longer.  Got it?”

Sherlock waved his hand expressively. 

“Cheers,” Raz said.  He went to lean back but winced and rocked forward again.  “First you can tell your short-arse friend that he’s fucking heavy alright?” 

Sherlock smirked.  “I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

Raz nodded.  “Alright, so second, the message thing.  Basically, what I have to say is _stop digging because shit isn’t ready yet_.” 

Sherlock paused for a second.  “That’s it?”

“Yeah.  Well I’m paraphrasing but that’s the gist.”

“ _That’s_ what your boss wanted to tell me?  That’s what they sent you to say?” Sherlock said incredulously.

“Well boss is a strong word-“

“- They instruct you in what to do and your terrified they’re going to kill you.  Boss seems as good a word as any.”

“Don’t know what kind of jobs you’ve had mate but they must have been real shit.”

Sherlock smiled.  “That’s why I’m my own boss now.  Can you tell me about your boss?”

“Nah mate.  Ain’t worth my head to go gossiping to you.  Plus, you’ll know everything, soon enough.  That is, if you stop digging.”

“What happens if I don’t stop, seeing as the only thing preventing me is a word from _you_?”

“Suspect he’ll make you pay for it.  He’s made it explicitly clear he doesn’t like people interrupting his plans,” Sherlock looked about to make a snarky reply that he didn’t care what Raz’s boss thought, when Raz continued, “Probs go for your bulldog mate first.”

Sherlock sat up.  “That would be a mistake on his part,” he snarled. 

Raz mirrored Sherlock.  “So, _leave alone_.  Just for a bit.  Then you can run around in your fancy togs as much as you want.” 

“What do they want?  Your boss?”

Raz scrunched up his face.  Sherlock kept staring. 

Raz shook his head.  Sherlock kept staring.

Raz sighed.  “To get your attention.”  Then he glared at the ceiling and said “Oh shit.”

It was at this moment the particular part of the ceiling above Raz’s head caved in.  Dust and detritus flurried down, masking both Sherlock and Raz from view.  There was a flurry of activity, wings and screaming, mainly from Raz.  John beat Lestrade out the door, in time to catch Sherlock as he fell out the interrogation room, a gash streaming blood from his head. 

“Sherlock, you alright?” John said, arms rushing up to catch him as he fell.  Lestrade jumped over them into the room.  John couldn’t give less of a shit.  “Sherlock speak to me!”

Sherlock coughed and spluttered, before rasping, “He’s gone.  Raz’s gone.” 

“FUCK.”

They both looked to the interrogation room.

Lestrade was very, _very_ pissed. 

***

“I’ll go get that for you Mrs H,” John said, already bolting down the stairs, his coat half on. 

It had been five days since they had been unceremoniously kicked off the case.  Lestrade’s words were on the line of “If I see either of you near this case again I’m going to murder both of you and leave your heads on spikes outside the building as a warning to others.”  John recalled being both horrified and impressed.  Lestrade could create very vivid imagery when he wanted.  However their dismissal had the knock-on effect of infuriating Sherlock who, after chasing around London for a while, declared the entire thing hopeless and retreated to the sofa, muttering darkly about Guards and portals and how idiotic and annoying the universe was.

John was at his limit.  He could escape to his job, which was at least a constant source of boring and dull, but that only took up so many hours of the day.  He had to return home at some point, to be greeted by a lump of Consulting Detective on the sofa which refused to speak or move or do anything.  Usually John just left him to it but with the prospect of two days off looming, he knew action would be necessary.  It would involve dragging Sherlock kicking and screaming back into reality and to other cases and to weird experiments at the kitchen table.  It would involve bribery and threats and possible tears on both sides.

So he was procrastinating by going to the shops for Mrs Hudson.  He was brave, he wasn’t _stupid_.  He had chosen the shop that was six streets away, rather than the one around the corner, and he meandered the aisles, picking things up as he stumbled across them rather than having a targeted attack strategy.  As he picked up Mrs H’s shopping, he grabbed milk and bread for their own flat, as well as an array of biscuits, Sherlock’s preferred tea brand, and at the last minute, some mini-quiches.  Why Sherlock would deign to eat them when he was in a mood, out of all the food-stuffs on offer, he had no idea.  All he knew was that to get Sherlock eating something would be a miracle and these were his best bet.  Plus if he didn’t want them, John figured he and Mrs Hudson could have a lovely gossip other them, in which Mrs H talked about the scandalous neighbours and John had a nice, normal conversation, with a nice, normal person.  It was the simple things after all. 

Fortified with full shopping bags and a plan, he felt ready to set off home.  There was only so long he could stall under the pretence of handing over Mrs Hudson’s shopping and with a gentle “I can manage myself just fine.  Go look after him, he’s got himself in a right twist over something,” John was dismissed for the second time that week.

Mrs Hudson must have used his absence to clear the bomb site that was their living room.  This was evident in the fact that the floor was actually visible, there were no longer a variety of mugs all containing cold tea, and the spectre on the sofa had a blanket thrown over him to stop his feet from getting cold.  He hadn’t moved since the last time John saw him.  Well, hadn’t until a packet of biscuits dropped on his head. 

“Evening sunshine,” John said as Sherlock started. 

“Hmmmnnnnn,” was all the shape said.  However, after a pause, it said “Biscuits?”

John had headed to the kitchen and so missed the curious look Sherlock was giving the package in his hand.  He replied, “Don’t eat them all at once, you’ll be sick, but yes, I did buy you biscuits.”  What he also missed was the small smile Sherlock gave the biscuits, as he heaved himself upright, perched his feet on the seat of the chair, blanket still swaddled around him. 

However, he did return to the living room to see Sherlock tentatively eating the treat without complaint.  This warmed his heart and gave him a sense of pride.  

“Better?” John asked.

Sherlock grumbled but nodded.  “Thank you,” he said, not looking directly at John. 

This meant they could move on to stage two.  He retreated to the kitchen and returned with tea.  Eating was the gateway to drinking.  “You can’t stay on the sofa forever,” he said as he handed one mug over. 

“Can,” Sherlock said, pouting. 

John sighed and rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he sat in his chair.  “Shouldn’t then.”

“I don’t often listen to should and shouldn’t.”

“Listen just once then.  Just for me,” John pleaded.  “You’re better than languishing on the sofa.”

Sherlock sipped his tea moodily.  John didn’t realise before Sherlock that someone could drink tea with any sort of emotion.    _Eventually_ Sherlock looked at John.  “They’ll have stopped using the underground by now.  Could have chosen another location or shut the entire system down.   Our lead has gone AWOL.  Not exactly promising.”

This did not ring true.  “So that’s it?  You’re just giving up on the case?”

“Not giving up.  _Waiting_.  Ugh, even the word.”  Sherlock threw his head back dramatically. 

“So until you get some sort of bat-signal telling you that it’s fine to investigate again, you’re just going to...sulk?”  He was trying not to be judgemental when he said that.  He did not entirely succeed.

Sherlock went back to pouting.  “I can do whatever I want.  Including sulking.” 

John couldn’t help laughing.  “Fine.  You are your own boss.  But Mrs Hudson can’t clean around you forever.”

“Not even going to defend yourself?” Sherlock smiled. 

“Look, we both know who actually does the work around here and it’s neither of us.”

“I do things.”

“Like create the messes in the first place.”

“Not one of the angels remember?”

John wasn’t going to bring it up.  Genuinely.  However now the subject was out there...

“You can ask.  I don’t mind,” Sherlock added, although his mouth twisted and he put the biscuits down. 

John sobered slightly.  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Just ask.  I can always not answer.”

There were many questions John wanted to ask.   The one that he started with surprised even himself. 

“How did you get out?  Really?”

Sherlock glowered.  “You can’t tell anyone.”  Intriguing.  John nodded.  “My brother bailed me out.”

“You have a _brother_?”  Not the thing to focus on but his mind couldn’t quite comprehend there being another Holmes wandering around the cosmos. 

Sherlock looked like he was sucking a lemon.  “Unfortunately.  He’s awful.”

“How did he even-?”

“By sticking his fat nose where it doesn’t belong.  And using powers he shouldn’t have to leverage me out of the Other Place.  Not entirely sure why.”

John frowned.  “Because you’re a good angel?”  Sherlock silently stared into his tea.  “Wait, you don’t think you actually belonged there do you?” John said in disbelief.  Sherlock merely shrugged, which broke something in John.  “Hey, look at me.  There’s no way you belong there.”

Sherlock picked the thread of the blanket around his knees.  “You didn’t know me back then.  I was not what one would call a model citizen.”

John scoffed.  “You’re not one now.  Not even close.  But you care about other beings, deep, deep down.  That counts for something.”

“But I _fell_.  That has to mean something.”  Sherlock looked up at John. 

“It means you’re lucky your brother was there to help you.  And that sometimes things really are just bureaucratic errors.”

“Ugh, never mention my brother again, the thought of him makes me physically ill.  You’re turning people into heroes again,” Sherlock warned.

“And you are insisting you’re a villain.  Have you been a dick recently?  Yes.  Is it worth being banished to the Other Place for?  No.  I mean you solve crimes for a living., that counts for something.  You look after Mrs Hudson.  You put up with me.  You’re not a bad angel Sherlock.  Even if you want to be.”

Sherlock smiled at him.  “Your moral compass is enviable John.”

John shuffled in his chair, oddly ruffled.  “I just think you haven’t given yourself enough credit.”  There was something about having Sherlock smile at him that made him feel odd.  Happy but odd.  “So you’re going to stop lounging around and get on with something productive.  Set the curtains on fire.  Re-draw your internal map of Thai restaurants in a 100 mile radius.  Learn to paint.”

“Fine.  To protect your sensibilities, I will vacate the sofa.  And my painting is…adequate.”

John smiled.  “Good to know.  I’m sure Molly will have something for you to dismantle.  Also, your hair’s stuck up weird.”

Sherlock felt the side of his head, where his curls were defying gravity.  He sighed and stuck his tongue out at John. 

A truce had been called over 221B. 

Everyone was relieved with this news. 

***

The calm only needed to last four more days. 

Directly across from their living room was a sign that could not be ignored.  Spray painted onto the side of the building opposite, in bright yellow paint.  The symbols were on either side of the words.

_Time to play Sherlock.  IOU._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was supposed to somehow be more plot in this chapter, really pushing us into the action. Then I started writing a month ago and the chapter got a bit busy and then I got a bit busy and basically it's a month later than the last chapter, I've somehow written 5k words and we're still not at the part I wanted to be at. If this carries on I expect the next chapter to be about 9k long and featuring at least *gasp* two plot points! :P 
> 
> Happy New Year's everyone- I hope you enjoy this chapter and I promise we will get to the end of this thing soon!

John expected Sherlock to be ecstatic at the news that the game was back on.  He certainly played the part well, bouncing up to stand on the sofa, gesticulating wildly while talking, and stating the day should be a national holiday as the universe finally stopped being boring.  However, it seemed to John he was merely overjoyed rather than nonsensical with excitement.  There was a hesitancy in declaring it “wonderful news” and he had not attempted to race out the door in his pyjamas, as was his habit when his emotions took over his actions.  Instead he chased into his room and returned fully dressed, chiding John for not getting his shoes on.  The fact the detective was barefoot himself was not apparently relevant.

“You alright?” John asked as they stepped over the road, where the paint was failing to attract much attention.  The people of London Above were about as jaded as those in the London Below. 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock snapped. 

“No reason,” John said, backing off.  “Should we call for back-up?”  Sherlock’s only reply was to scoff.  So not entirely out of sorts then.  Perhaps he was projecting his own worries onto Sherlock.  Although John was glad the case was open for business, he had not failed to notice that this all looked like a trap.  What sort of criminal pressed pause on an on-going investigation?  What sort of criminal then tempted the investigators into an abandoned building and then nothing untoward happens?  And why?  Were they close to catching them?  If so, why would Sherlock listen instead of going in for the kill?  These questions didn’t have answers for the moment, but this did not stop them from buzzing around John’s mind, every moment of relaxation tinged with a slice of worry that _something_ might happen.  In fact, it was quite nice that something _had_ happened, just so his worry was justified.  However, if he had spotted the trap, then so had Sherlock, and he was still willing to go into the building.  This was not a glowing recommendation of safety but if he was willing to get himself into trouble, then he would need back-up and that consisted of John and…John.  He could text Lestrade.  It surely couldn’t be counted as interfering in a case when the case fell on to your doorstep and invited you to look by name. 

However, when he checked his pocket, he realised his phone was abandoned in their flat so he reasoned someone passing by would notice the strange message and would pass it on to the Guards.  Lestrade would get to them eventually and until then, it was up to him to prevent Sherlock from pushing his lack of self-preservation too far. 

The door to the building directly opposite their flat was already open.  Retrospectively, if asked what the buildings were, John would have probably shrugged and said they were flats too but if he was being truly honest, he had never given a single thought to them.  They had blended into the backdrop of his life with Sherlock, an old movie set made of paper and false perspectives for them to stage their adventures on.  Now he knew just how close that assessment was.  The building was abandoned.  It spread out further than 221, the open-space of the area three buildings instead of one.  The other doors must be false, as there was no sign of them this side of the wall.  Metal stairs were tucked to the far right side.  It reminded John of a factory floor, bereft of machines.  Suddenly he wished for a torch to cut through the gloom. 

However, the place wasn’t entirely neglected.  The walls were not crumbling, no damp sprawled over walls and ceilings.  No sign of squatters which was unusual- this should have been prime real estate.

“No dust,” he said.

Sherlock started, and paused, pulling him mind from racing ahead to concentrate on John.  Eventually he replied “Must have cleaned it.  No tracks.”

“Why would they care about tracks?  We know they’ve been here.”

“I’ve managed to find people on less.”  It would have been immodest, if it hadn’t of been true. 

“What is this place?” John asked.  He really could not wrap his head around it.  It seemed miles away from Baker Street. 

“Used to be flats.  They knocked through to create some community space years ago but both the funding and enthusiasm dried up.  Now it’s abandoned.”

“And no one’s been here since?”

What make you say that?”

“No squatters, no rubbish, no graffiti.”  The three tenants of the abandoned building.  “This place is literally a blank canvas.”

Sherlock looked from John around the room once more, and then shrugged.  So much for ‘Sherlock Holmes: solvable of the unsolvable’ a nickname John had just come up with and which he would now never bestow upon Sherlock Holmes.  Satisfied with his scoping of the first floor, the detective moved towards the stairs.  “Well my brother’s goons would be annoyed having to navigate them every time they came to keep tabs on me.”

That caught John’s full attention.  “Your brother _spies_ on you?” John’s felt anger spike through him.  What an invasion of privacy.  Sherlock smiled indulgently back at him. 

“Can’t really be spying if I know it’s happening.  More fun to mess with him when it’s happening.”

“And he wouldn’t listen when you threw a strop about it?” John hazard an educated guess.

“I do not strop!”  That was a yes then.  “And I think your graffiti theory is off.”  Well now he was just being childish.

John then reassessed when he too emerged from the stairs.  The yellow paint was stark against the white, as obvious as the sign from across the road.  It was an address. 

“Different handwriting.”  Sherlock tilted his head towards John, keen as ever to hear his attempts at observation.  Both were stood nearly leaning on the wall, John not daring to risk either of them moving further into the room, Sherlock using the vantage point to sweep for objects of interest.  “The writing up until now has been fairly similar, small variations, but this,” he pointed.  “This is more…slopey.” God he wished he was better at words.  Sherlock nodded charitably.  “If we could find out how many people are tagging, by using their handwriting, we might have more of an idea what we’re up against.”

John glanced over to Sherlock to see if his, totally casual, “only if you want, definitely only a suggestion” idea had any standing.  Sherlock was smiling his ‘of course John’ smile.  Which meant one thing.  “You’ve already started doing this haven’t you?”

“A little.”

“ _How_?”  Lestrade’s ban on the case also involved materials pertaining the case, including all their work identifying symbols near the underground.  John could have cried for the hours he’d spent on it. 

“Mallory, while loyal to Lestrade to a fault, _really_ wants to impress him.  I have no idea why-”

John cut him off.  He’d already heard the speech before.  “What did you say?”  He felt he already knew. 

“I merely pointed out Lestrade is impressed with good work and that helping solve this case would constitute good work.”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s not my fault he believed me!”

There was a clatter of something downstairs and both paused.  John gathered energy in his fingertips, just in case.  Silence.  Carefully, Sherlock began backing towards the other side of the room.  John hesitated.  He looked at Sherlock who locked eyes and nodded slightly. 

_I know what I’m doing._

_This is so a trap._

_Trust me._

John sighed and followed, equally as slow, keeping one eye on the stairwell.  Sherlock gasped slightly and John swivelled, mind already flicking through possible life-threatening scenarios.  He then gasped as well. 

The writing had gone. 

“Clever,” Sherlock whispered.  John shot him a look.   _Not the time_.  Sherlock sent an affronted look.  _There’s always time_. 

John doubted he would have found the door Sherlock was aiming for without help.  It blended into the wall perfectly.  Clearly Sherlock had not been kidding about messing with his brother’s spies.  He didn’t know whether to be proud or concerned.

John only turned when the door had slid shut behind him and had become invisible once again. 

“ _Sherlock are we breaking and entering_?” he hissed. 

They were in a living room.  The floor plan was similar to their own, a living room connecting to a kitchen, stairs, fireplace.  However, the décor was more modern, very minimalist with a lot of clear lines and a base neutral colour palate to accentuate the bold colours of the blue sofa and various artworks on the walls.  It wasn’t to John’s own tastes, preferring the cluttered cosiness of their own flat.  That being said, differing interior design tastes did not give you permission to let yourself into their flat and nosy about.

Sherlock replied at a normal volume, inspecting the flat lazily.  “We’ve already broken and entered.  And don’t worry, the people run the shop downstairs, they’ve no reason to-“

The stairs creaked, and muffled voices drifted up to them.  Sod’s law was a tricky beast. 

“Fire escape,” John ordered, and they launched themselves at the other pair of stairs. 

Delicacy was not the object here but as they hared up the flight, John attempted to lessen the sound of stampeding elephants.  He didn’t spare a glance for the bedroom they sprinted through, his only focus how quickly Sherlock was opening the window and thus how fast they could make their escape.  As Sherlock went first, John listened as the person downstairs shouted “Hello?” 

It was as the first creak of the stairs occurred that John launched himself out the window.  He half-slid the window down but Sherlock pushed him out the way and down the set of metal stairs, reminiscent of the one’s they had climbed in the other building.  Leaving Sherlock to shut the window, he clattered down.  They led to the back of the buildings, the thin land between this set of terraced houses and the next.  Not wanting to risk another house-break, he took a left.  God he hoped Sherlock had made it out. He spared a glance back, and sure enough the Fallen was right behind him.  John dropped back, Sherlock’s navigational skills being sharper and he was led a twisting route that somehow landed them at the back of Baker Street.  Sherlock threw himself at the sliding ladder that consisted of their own fire escape and gestured for John to go up first.  He scampered up and shoved the window open.  It took a few tries, the old wooden frame protesting at such treatment but eventually it reluctantly offered enough space for John to fall through.  He ended up sprawled on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom.  A few moments later, Sherlock slipped through the window, elegant as always and immediately asked “John what _are_ you doing?”

John burst into giggles.  It was the combination of the question, the indignant tone, and the adrenaline rush which sent him over the edge, and as the adrenaline took the wheel, he worked himself into near hysteria.  It was the sort of laughing you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.  He caught Sherlock’s eye mid-laugh, which set the detective to chuckling which evolved so he was in the same state of John.  Each time one of them seemed to calm down, the other set them right off again, until Mrs Hudson appeared demanding to know if they had finally lost it.  When they waved her away with a ‘It’s nothing Hudders, sorry for the noise’, they managed to get a hold of themselves. 

After a few deep breaths, John managed to sit up properly.  He smiled up at Sherlock, who was gazing curiously at him.  Signalling, he held his hand out.  Sherlock blinked.  John raised his eyebrow and waved his hand a little, which seemed to trigger Sherlock into movement.  They locked fingers and Sherlock helped haul John up.

Up close, John saw Sherlock’s cheeks were vivid red.  Must have been a hell of a run.  The windswept look suited Sherlock, scarf askew, hair wild, eyes bright.  Suited him a lot.  John shuddered to think of what he looked like himself. 

“Tea?”

Sherlock nodded, having retreated into his mind.  When John wandered to the kitchen, Sherlock trailed him before moving over to his chair. 

The adrenaline rush was starting to abate slightly and his legs felt wobbly.  Far too much excitement for a Thursday morning.  He propped himself against the counter, going through the mundane ritual as a balance to the unusual. 

When he had slumped into his own chair, he figured Sherlock had had enough time to process.  John had made a deduction of his own, which he was very happy about.  “Which underground station does it relate to then?”

“I do not appreciate being used as a glorified map service John,” Sherlock retorted, but the gleam in his eyes showed his approval. 

“You love it.” 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out, so John made a face, which made Sherlock snort into his tea. 

Sherlock propped his feet up onto the chair, so his knees were bunched up against his chin.  John leaned forward slightly.  “Do you know there are roughly 77 abandoned tube stations in London?  In the Below most of them have been destroyed but in the Above, some have been kept and remodelled.  For example, there’s one that used to service the patrons of the British Museum.”

“Oh, I love the museum.  So it’s not a station anymore?”

“Nope.”  Then Sherlock smiled.  It unnerved John.

“Go on then.  What is it now?”

Sherlock tilted his head and asked the next question with as much innocence as he could muster.  “How do you feel about clubbing John?”

***

Sherlock may have been exaggerating slightly. 

When he had been asked about clubbing, John’s mind had filled with visions of sticky floors, cheap shots, and _lots_ of people.  Not a horrendous night for when he was a newly-formed angel but not one John would rush towards.  Sherlock had spent the rest of the day tapping away on his laptop or phone and generally looking nonplussed about the entire event (after he’d had a good laugh at John’s expression of course).  John, in contrast to his usual habits, kept pacing and moving, unable to sit still.  If he was annoying Sherlock, it wasn’t mentioned. 

There was a dire moment when he was stood looking at his wardrobe, completely unable to find anything suitable to wear.  Luckily, if unconventionally, a dishevelled, mostly dressed Sherlock burst in with a muttered “for the love of-”, threw some items at John, and hurricaned-out with his wet hair and undone buttons.  John told himself that his shortness of breath was surprise at Sherlock’s entrance.  Just surprised.  Indeed, he was still surprised all throughout getting dressed, even down to putting his socks and shoes on. 

He had to admit Sherlock knew how to dress him.  Nothing ostentatious, jeans and a button down at its basics, but the navy colour brought out the depths in his eyes, made him more rugged than run-down.  He could have sworn he’d never seen the clothes before though.  He wouldn’t have put it past Sherlock to have smuggled them in at some point today for this exact occasion.  Thoughtful git.  He also knew how to dress himself.  It wasn’t much different from his usual get-up, hair a bit more ruffled, wings a little less, shirt clinging more (John didn’t realise that was possible).

When they arrived at the disused station, clattering down the stairs, and successfully passing the bouncers, John found himself pleasantly surprised.  There was a dance floor sure, in the pit where the tracks would have been, and the lighting was dark.  However, his feet were not suctioned to the floor and it was pleasantly bustling rather than overwhelmingly busy.  There was a beautiful bar running along one of the platforms, dark mahogany wood, which somehow had managed not to get too scuffed up with use.  They moved towards the bar.  No point going into _this_ trap sober. 

John leaned facing the bar, whereas Sherlock faced out to the crowd.  John tried to catch the eye of the staff but they were busy at the other end of the bar so he settled in for the long haul.  “Right.  So what we thinking about this?  Bomb threat?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Bit obvious.  Mysterious disappearance?”

“They’d have to be someone notable for us to realise,” John said, shaking his head. 

“One of us.”

“That would only work if you didn’t run off every two seconds.  I’d probably go home, thinking you were on the chase.  It’d be days before I sent someone out looking for you.”

“I’d have managed to escape by that point anyway.  No use waiting for the Guards to find me, you’d be better just looking for me yourself.”

“I’m going to pretend that was a compliment.”

“It was.”

“Look at you being so generous.  Ooh, what is everyone’s in on it?  Like in a spy film when everyone files out and it’s just the hero and villain left?”

“You need to stop filling your head with such ideas.  Although it would explain the speed of the bar staff.”

“Hey, they’re trying their best with no prior training.  You think criminal masterminds are paying £25 a head for cocktail-making sessions?”

“Be better than all this waiting.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Because I’m known for my virtue.”

“Well there’s always time to start.”  John winked at Sherlock, just because, and grinned.  _This_ was what cases were about.  God how he loved it.  They were finally served and John swivelled to mirror Sherlock.  They stayed there for a while, just surveying the room, the crowd.  John couldn’t spot anything obviously nefarious but really he was just there so Sherlock could spot the unobvious-ly nefarious and he could drag him out of trouble at the last second.  Waiting led to another drink, and they migrated to a tall table.  They occasionally chatted, Sherlock pointing out a random deduction, John telling stories that popped into his head for no reason other than the fact that they were here and apparently had time and he wanted to. 

Sherlock drained the last of the liquid in his tumbler and straihtened up.  “So, what now?” John asked. 

“Dance floor.”

“I didn’t know you danced.”

“I prefer traditional ballroom, but I suppose this will have to do.  Need to have a look round,” he explained and John nodded.  He had _many_ questions. 

“I’ll wait here,” John said, indicating his own drink. 

So Sherlock practically glided away, melting into the crowd as he went down the stairs.  It took a while to locate him again. 

When he did, John was grateful for the pause.  He was frozen, mesmerised.  Unwinding was not Sherlock’s speed.  But there, in the middle of the floor, he looked _undone_.  Languid, loose and yet graceful, rolling from one movement to the next.  He was in control but compelled by the beat.  Although John knew he was looking, always looking, it seemed as if Sherlock was entirely unaware of his surroundings, as if they’d melted away into the generic music.

He was beautiful. 

And John needed to join him.  He drained his drink and stood. 

He didn’t rush, didn’t run.  Sherlock was always in his sight, he couldn’t drag his eyes away.

John didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there.  He just had to get there.  As ever, Sherlock would lead the way. 

Sherlock grinned as he appeared in front of him and he smiled shyly back.  It took a minute, for him to get a feel for the rhythm, the push and pull of the song.  Once he was there he started to dance.  Slowly, maybe not as fluidly as Sherlock, but dance nonetheless.  It was easy to believe this was a private space, that it was theirs, which made it easier to relax.  No one else mattered really, each drawn in to their own dramas.  The beat shifted, slowed.  More people joined the floor, so they moved closer together.  Just a step.  And another.  A nudge made John stumble forward and Sherlock caught his elbow.  Dragged his hand across his forearm.  Slipping across his hand.  Fingers briefly interlocking before falling.  His hand was left tingling, sparking. 

They were close.  They were always close.  Personal space was not really their thing but this was different.  Sherlock had his head tilted down to look at him, and he was there, in the dim glow of the lights, wings blocking out the people behind, an angel even if he didn’t believe it, and the beat of the music was rocking through him, and the heat of the dance floor was burning through him, and he wanted to reach out, to get those fingers back, to interlock them, and to move closer, to tilt his head up, wanted to be closer, and Sherlock’s hand ghosted over his again, and he wanted to touch, wanted to feel, wanted, _wanted_ -

Someone bumped into him.  He half-turned and watched someone’s half-apologetic hand wave.

His ears were ringing and he couldn’t turn back.  It felt like something had shattered and he couldn’t breathe properly and they needed to get out of this bar right now. 

“We should go,” Sherlock said quietly, like he was out of breath.  They were still stood so close that he could hear him easily. 

He nodded and followed Sherlock in a daze.  Trailed up, up, up until London was laid out before them.  Soon they were sat in the back of a cab.  Seemed like a good idea, quicker route home, less time to think, think about hands and connections and-  But now they were in the back and their knees were almost touching, and he couldn’t look at Sherlock but he could see him in the reflection from the mirror, and he could just reach out, stroke a hand through his wings, he could, but he couldn’t, and so he sat, stock still and this was hell it had to be because-

221B finally came into view.  Sherlock launched himself out so John paid and walked slowly upstairs.  

He expected Sherlock to have already retreated to his room, so was surprised when he nearly collided with him at the top of the stairs.  The shock made him inhale and god, Sherlock smelt amazing, and his shirt was so soft, and he looked up, and Sherlock looked down and it was that moment again and he was going to-

“Night,” Sherlock croaked out, swallowing loudly and John took a step back.  Sherlock whirled round and stalked into his room. 

“Night,” he whispered into the space, and then turned to go upstairs. 

The coldness of his room couldn’t dissipate the crackling energy he felt, flowing through his fingers and toes.  He sprawled out on his bed. 

This was a bad idea.

Such a bad idea.

This notion had not stopped him before. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  Shoes were kicked off as removed as he could be.  Too much thought could kick him the other way. 

So, without thinking too much about it, he thought about Sherlock, thought about their near-kiss, what it would be like to kiss those soft, full lips, and allowed the energy to creep up his toes to his knees, his hands to his forearm.  Knees that had knocked together, a forearm which Sherlock had caressed.  The feel of his hands on him, the fabric of his clothing the only barrier.  Now sparking with gorgeous, heady energy, expanding over him.  They would be soft kisses at first, so gentle, fragile, but building, growing bolder.  He could imagine pushing him up against a wall, licking into his mouth.  All so strangely human, so grounded.  Running hands through his hair, curls slipping through his fingers, like their fingers earlier.  Moving one hand down to stroke through his wings, Sherlock’s strong hands on him, Sherlock moaning, all his senses narrowed down to this glorious focus point, their energies meshing together, pulsing with light, and he was drowning in it, drowning, and _there, fuck there,_ the energy reached it’s peak and flooded him and it was _everything_. The shocks ran out into the room. 

John gasped for breath, the energy gone, the sense of spiralling fading away until he was fully back in reality.

“Fuck,” he said to the empty room.  He was sprawled out and he could have fallen asleep right then.  But his room was cold and he began shivering, so he crawled under the sheets, shoved his top and jeans off, and rolled onto his side, and tried desperately not to think about what any of it meant. 

A floor below, Sherlock unclenched his hands from the sheets, rolled over, and tried to do exactly the same. 

***

The morning was awkward.  There was no other word for it. 

He’d slunk out of his room an hour later than usual, not quite sure if he hoped Sherlock was in or out.  Seeing him sat at the kitchen table, nudging something on a petri dish with a pipette, took his breath away.  Red silk robe at odds with the threadbare t-shirt and the goggles perched on his head.  His curls were a perfect riot, not smoothed into careful dishevelment but on their own mission to defy gravity.  John’s hands twitched, as if to run through them.  His lips tingled as if begging to press a kiss to his forehead.  He was adorable, wonderful, he was fantastic, and he was so gone it was ridiculous. 

Out, John decided.  It would have been much better had Sherlock not been there.  Then at least the distraction would have been imaginary and thus controllable, deniable.  But with his solid presence in the flat, so was the elephant in the corner, the thing John didn’t want to look at too closely.  It was an elephant with power, an elephant that could crush him if he wasn’t careful.  In the corner it had to stay and so ignore all his emotions he must. 

He went through to the bathroom, bushing his teeth aggressively and splashing water on his face.  Then he marched back to the kitchen, determined to act _normally_. 

“Tea?” he asked the place near Sherlock’s elbow.  Sherlock’s hand skittered over his tools, but he grunted an affirmative.  John nodded, shuffled a few things around, and stared at the kettle for the minutes it took to boil.  He set the mug down, bumping it gently into Sherlock’s elbow to signal its arrival.  He made toast with the same concentration as he had made the tea. 

“So yesterday-” he started, while looking at the rust developing on the appliance.  That wasn’t good.  It was inside, how the hell had it rusted _inside_?  What he missed with his inner musings was the way Sherlock’s entire body stiffened, hands paused in mid-air, breath caught in his throat.  No, John didn’t see any of that as he continued, “Find anything interesting?”

Sherlock unfurled and coughed.  “Inconclusive.  I’ll have to go back tonight.” 

John tried not to swear.  “When are we going?” he asked tightly.  He wanted to do some errands today, the toaster giving him some direction of purpose.  This desire to procrastinate increased at the prospect of another night like the previous. 

Sherlock didn’t reply straight away and so John turned back and said “Sherlock?” in the direction of the Fallen’s right ear.

“I’m not certain it would be effective for you to come too,” Sherlock told John’s feet.

“What?” John huffed at Sherlock’s hands fiddling with the petri dish, wounded. 

Sherlock stared at John’s folded arms.  “It’s dangerous,” he said with a near pout.

“And I thought I made it clear you’re not going into danger alone.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted downwards.  “I’m not worried about myself.”

John couldn’t help but laugh.  “You’ve made that abundantly clear.  That’s why I’m worrying about you instead.”  And in that moment, Sherlock’s lips twisted the other way, a small smile.  Contemplated saying something.  Thought better of it.  Changed his mind. 

“I have a feeling,” Sherlock spat out the word, hating the notion that he didn’t know something, “that something…bad is going to happen.  And I think you are being targeted.”

“Good.  It would be boring otherwise.”  Sherlock’s reluctance to let him go too seemed to have broken the spell of awkward via annoyance.  Despite the fact that six minutes ago he would have loved to avoid another close encounter by choice, he wasn’t going to be forced out by Sherlock’s new-found conscience.  If he was going to regret going to a club with Sherlock, it would be his own regret he would earn. 

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his experiment.  “Fine.  Be ready by 9.”

John nodded.  Plenty of time.  “I’m going to buy a new toaster,” he announced to the kitchen and wandered back upstairs. 

He did not notice Sherlock smiling fondly at his back, experiment forgotten. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may not feel like it but we are so nearly there guys, and we are about two chapters away from the scene that propelled me to write this entire bloody thing in the first place!   
> This chapter is about 5700 words so is the longest chapter I think? As ever, kudos and comments are gold dust, but even just reading it warms my writers heart. Enjoy!

As John had stated many times to himself, this was all a trap.  He knew it was a trap.  Sherlock knew it was a trap.  No one should be surprised by it being a trap. 

He reminded himself of this fact when he woke up in a dingy cellar, his temples throbbing and his limbs rendered immobile by the ties and handcuffs that bound him to a chair.  It took him a few moments to realise his predicament.  Whatever he’d been given caused his brain to feel like feeble mush and his memories slow to activate.  There was a solid weight behind his back, something above where the chair stopped that felt humanoid.

It’s then he remembered what had happened.  The fact that this was almost an inevitability did temper some of John’s anger as he cast a wary eye around, and sighed loudly. 

To figure out how they got caught in this nonsense required thinking back several hours. 

***

He’d spent the morning quietly wandering around the shops, wondering why there needed to be more than one brand of toaster.  Maybe two at a push, for those that wanted the extravagance of toasting four slices of bread at once, but surely there wasn’t the need for all of this?  He considered cornering a member of staff and asking them to just sell him a toaster but one) he feared being asked any questions that required him to say more than “I want it to sit on the counter and toast bread when I want it to” and two) he didn’t want to turn into _that_ person who needed to complain about such things to bored looking staff. 

Practically, it needed to withhold being hurled across the kitchen with some of Sherlock’s more explosive experiments, so too much plastic was out.  Bright colours were out too- their kitchen clashed enough without adding polka dots or striped appliances into it. 

Eventually, he plumped for a sleek black thing, that didn’t look like it would buckle under the rigour of chemical burns and wouldn’t be an eye sore.  As he was wandering around, looking for an exit to the kitchen section which seemed to have expanded to the size of a galaxy, with signs that contradicted themselves tying him up in knots, he noticed a mug with an anatomical bee on it, labelled in old-time handwriting.  He didn’t think too much about it as he snagged one for Sherlock.  After all, it would be good for him to have at least one mug that hadn’t been used as a chemical mixing pot, and something about the idea of it sitting next to his own mug, detailed with the war-healer emblem, made him smile. 

He was still smiling as he handed it over 45 minutes later.  Sherlock studied it for a moment, and John wondered if he’d judged it wrong, but then Sherlock’s lips tipped into a smile as he looked curiously at John. 

“You are an enigma John Watson,” he declared, which stunned John momentarily.  It was difficult to see if this was intended as a compliment, and if it was, it was certainly one of the oddest he’d received.  He found himself fairly straightforward. 

“How so?” he asked, with a tilt of his head.  He moved away from the searching gaze to unpack the toaster.

“I never told you I loved bees and yet you chose this mug,” Sherlock said, smiling down at it once more, but with a puzzled crease between his eyebrows. 

John laughed.  “Lucky guess,” he responded flippantly.  Still deep in thought, Sherlock hummed but willing to let the point slide for now.  John didn’t feel like telling him that he’d noticed the apiology books lining the bookcase in the living room or the various honeys in the back of the cupboard.  Somehow, despite being perfectly reasonable things to notice about someone you lived with, to say them would expose something he was not ready to show to anyone else, never mind the subject of the feelings. 

They spent the rest of the day in companionable silence, Sherlock in his own head, and John trying to distract himself from thinking about last night and the night to come.  Once he’d sorted one problem, every small flaw in Baker Street made itself known, and he spent the day tightening screws, fixing the wobbly chair leg in the sitting room, washing the blankets that were shoved on the back of the sofa, cleaning the skull on the wall and adjusting its headphones, and a multitude of other “I’ll get round to it later” tasks. 

Frankly, by the time they had to leave, he was exhausted.  This was useful in the fact that he couldn’t concentrate on what had happened the last time they were in the bar but did not make him a reliable detective’s assistant. 

A deal seemed to be have been silently struck that they would not get completely rat-arsed this time and stick to the job in hand.  Rogue Fallen’s on killing sprees and all that.  Probably best to have their wits about them.  Probably not good to get drunk and snog your flatmate while society-threatening chaos descended around you.  Sherlock had even deigned to wear a looser shirt and John was wearing the jeans he’d had on all day, rather than changing into the tighter pair he was wearing yesterday.  They ordered drinks at the bar but Sherlock didn’t touch his own and John was sipping his so slowly he might as well have asked for a tap water for the effect it would have on him. 

From what he could see, nothing had changed apart from the place being slightly busier (there had been signs about a drinks offer on when they had entered).  A glance at Sherlock seemed to confirm he hadn’t spotted anything suspicious either, the tell-tale gleam in his eyes when he spotted a clue being absent. 

“Anything?” John asked anyway.

“Not out here.  There however...” Sherlock pointed towards the opposite side of the tracks.  There was a smaller bar set up and next to it, a doorway that had STAFF ONLY stamped across it.  It was the latter which had clearly caught his attention. 

“How are we going to get in?” John didn’t pretend they weren’t going through the door, getting straight to the logistics. 

“Confidence John,” Sherlock said as he began to stride across the floor, as if that answered the question. 

Trying to cut through the crowd was more difficult than it looked.  Clubs, and dance floors in particular, appeared to make people totally unaware of the space around them.  He thought back to yesterday as prime evidence, the person bumping into him completely oblivious to what they’d broken.  Luckily Sherlock was tall enough that he was easy to find but this also meant that John had a perfect view of him disappearing through the door without him, as he was stuck trying to navigate around an awkwardly placed high table.  He followed as quickly as he could, his senses settling themselves on high-alert.

Initial impressions were of a short narrow room that could barely qualify as a corridor, brimming over with stacks of alcohol on rickety shelves.  Plastic wrapping was everywhere, half opened packages shoved into rough piles as the drinks were put out as quickly as they were selling.  Clean-up clearly started after customers stopped badgering the bar staff and they had three minutes of quiet to themselves. 

There was no sign of any of the staff.  Unfortunately there was no sign of Sherlock either. 

There were three doors leading out of the room, the one he’d just come from, a wooden one on the far-left of the room and one directly in front of him, with frosted glass that looked like it led to an office.  If he had to bet, he would guess Sherlock had headed to the office first but there was also the possibility he was going to walk in on the manager and somehow have talk his way out of it. 

The left-side door rattled.  He had a moment to decide if he should dive out of another door or hide behind a shelf.

He hesitated too long. 

A bouncer came through, maybe on his break.  John suspected he looked ridiculous, less deer-in-the-headlights on a dark road and more elephant-under-spotlights on the brightest day in the year. 

He was immediately grabbed before he could run. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Eloquently he replied “Errrrrr.”  Sherlock was much better at this. 

An angel with trendy tinted grey wings, fading to navy tips walked in, ill-fitting suit hanging off his body walked in, flanked by another bouncer.  Maybe a security detail?  This was clealy the manager John had wished to avoid. 

“Just caught him boss,” the guy with a death-grip on John’s arm said.  Later he would find it odd that the manager didn’t look surprised to see him but his attention in the current moment was focussed on the thuggish man, making sure he wouldn’t get a chance to get a punch or kick in.  The other bouncer marched forward, clearly looking for others.  He hoped Sherlock had the sense to hide or run. 

His hopes were soon dashed.

“Found another one boss!” said another, holding Sherlock by the scruff of his neck like a naughty puppy.  Sherlock looked distressed at the havoc it was wrecking on his suit.  Then his focus honed on the man stood between them and his eyes lit up.  Of course now he has a fucking deduction to make.

“Oh so you’re-”

And that’s the moment everything went black.

***

So really, John reasoned, everything could be blamed on Sherlock for wandering off.   

This is why he didn’t feel as bad that the first thing he did upon regaining consciousness was nudge his elbow backwards, jabbing it into Sherlock’s side.

The detective was slow to awaken and so, with slightly more urgency, John did it again.

“Owww,” Sherlock complained sluggishly.  “Whhhhhhy?”

It was quickly evident that although John had been knocked out too, much of the strength of the spell had focussed on Sherlock.  Whereas John found that, although physically bruised, coherent thought was quick to return, Sherlock was less lucky. 

“To wake you up,” John explained. 

“S’not nice.”  On the one hand, it was concerning that Sherlock was so affected.  On the other hand, this was going to be perfect blackmail material later on.  Or maybe just something to tease him about when he was more lucid. 

“Didn’t say I was nice.” 

Sherlock scoffed.  “Everyone thinks you’re nice.  But I- I _know_.  You know?  That you, you wouldn’t be de- dez- described!  Described by one word.  Especially not nice.  _Nice_.”  Sherlock’s head lolled back slightly.  It had the unfortunate effect of squishing John’s already tender skull, dulling the impact of his sweet words.

“That’s very…” John cast around for any word other than nice. “Sweet.  That’s very sweet of you Sherlock.  Now get off my head or I’m going to do serious damage to your kidneys.”

Sherlock sighed, as if lifting the weight of his own head required herculean strength.

“John,” he said, his voice strangely modified by the fact his head had dropped forward and his chin was now digging into his throat. 

John giggled before replying “Yes?”

“Where are we?”

“You’re the genius.  You work it out.”

Sherlock sighed again, the most put upon being in existence.  “Room.  Dark.  Damp.  Wires.  Bits of…stuff on floor. Metally- metal stuff.” 

“No windows,” John supplied, happy that in this game of deduction he had a head start.

“Yeah, I spotted that. Now shhhh!  I’m _thinking_.”

 John rolled his eyes.  Bossy as ever. 

It was at this point Sherlock started wriggling. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked bewildered, as his arms were jolted about.  He started to panic Sherlock was having some sort of fit when he replied.  

“Magic,” Sherlock stated.  “Non-angelic magic.”  Angelic had at least four more syllables than it really required but John let it slide in favour of making sure his shoulder wasn’t wrenched from its socket.

After a few minutes, and quite a bit of swearing, there was the sound of clattering and then Sherlock waved his arms in the air, stretching them out after their captivity.  “Got it.  Now for the cuffs on my feet.”  John felt begrudgingly impressed.  Of course even mildly high, Sherlock retained some of his skill. 

 “Now, do you have a hairpin?”  Sherlock asked him, over pronouncing his words.  He sounded like a magician asking the audience for assistance. 

John paused a moment before replying, to take in the full bizarreness of the question.  “Surprisingly, no.  No, I do not have a hairpin.  At all.  Even when not trapped in a basement.”

“Ah.” Sherlock sounded a little put out.  “Wait!” he shouted for no reason and then lent forward to scramble at his shoes.  He lifted something up in triumph.  “Don’t worry, found it.”

“Found what?” Not being able to see an addled Sherlock was beginning to grate. 

“Lock-pick.  Keep one in my shoes at all times.  Didn’t know if I could reach it or if it had been conf- confi- confsccc- taken.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled as he worked.

“You’d have made an excellent boy scout,” John mused as Sherlock worked. 

“Oh no. No no noooo no.  Terrible Boy Scout.  Accidently set fire to everything.  And tried to keep the frogs we found.”  John couldn’t help laughing, imagining a mini-Sherlock, all riotous hair and pleading eyes, trying to smuggle his quarry back to camp. 

“Ta-da!” Sherlock said, leaping to his surprisingly steady feet.  He was now just in John’s vision.  The hope that flared in John was soon extinguished however by the door flying open.  Again. 

The club owner and the two henchmen.  Everything stood still for a second. 

Then Sherlock said “Oops,” still clutching his lock-pick.  It was not the best weapon he could have chosen and was not remotely intimidating.

One of the thugs launched at Sherlock.  Sherlock scrambled backwards and, with his back to the wall, kicked the aggressive angel in the face.  The angel reeled, holding a bloody nose, and Sherlock darted into John’s eye line, this time in front of him.  As far as he could make out, he hadn’t been injured, moving fast enough that the other guy couldn’t grab him.  But what Sherlock was unaware of was that this placed him in direct line of the other thug.  The second man had prepared an attack, and was ready to pounce.  John saw him lunge and, with alarm, saw something glinting in his hand.  Weapon.  Sherlock jumped back, losing his footing and falling to the floor, exposed and vulnerable.  Without conscious thought, John pushed a wave of energy out, causing the lights to flicker and dim momentarily, and knocking both the henchmen and the club manager (who had yet to speak a word) out cold.

“Sherlock?!” John shouted.  “Sherlock are you alright?”  The detective had been thrown back by the blast and was laid out on the floor.  He was, however, still conscious, as proved by his head rolling over to look at John.  The grey eyes looked up at him, a little dazed, but soft around the edges. 

“Never better,” he said jokingly.  He groaned as he heaved himself up, first onto his elbows, and then upright.

“Slowly,” John ordered but Sherlock waved at him dismissively.  He then looked at his palm in surprise.  There was a gash, where he had landed on a piece of the metal strewn across the floor that he had identified not fifteen minutes earlier. 

“Ow,” he said, in belated acknowledgment. 

“Don’t touch anything,” John said, wishing he wasn’t still tied up.  He was unsure where the energy burst had come from, but whatever it was, he was now knackered and feared he was unable to perform even unangelic-magic.  He pushed against his restraints.  Still tight as ever. 

“Hang on,” said Sherlock, as he shuffled over, one hand stabilised on the floor, the injured one still raised in the air.

“You look ridiculous,” John couldn’t help point out. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. He disappeared around John’s back.  Careful touches moved John’s wrists and for a while Sherlock cradled a hand in his.  John kept a careful eye on their captors, uncertain how long they’d be unconscious for. 

“Aha,” Sherlock said triumphantly, grinning proudly, as John’s hands were freed.  As soon as Sherlock appeared at his front again, the hands went immediately to Sherlock’s face, making sure that there was no obvious scarring, no bleeding, that his eyes were focused properly and he hadn’t sustained a concussion from the fall. Sherlock relaxed under his hands, leaning in to the gentle but insistent touch.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John asked again.

“Peachy,” came the dreamy reply. 

John was as reluctant to move as Sherlock, happy to just hold him for a moment, even at such an awkward angle. However one of the henchmen made a groaning noise and the need to get Sherlock out of there overrode John’s own desires.

“Help me with my feet,” he ordered.  Luckily he was only tied to the chair, rather than cuffed.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, partially leaning on John’s leg as he worked and together they quickly managed to untangle him. 

John resisted the urge to simply pick Sherlock up and march him back to the flat, stopped only because his shoulder was aching from the odd angle and sudden reintroduction of blood flow and his tiredness.  He settled for hooking his good arm around Sherlock’s back, stretching out his wing to cover him from any sharp objects or crumbling brick work.  Before leaving them though, he checked the pockets of the men, and grabbed a phone off of the manager.  It was too much to hope they’d find their own phones but any way of contacting help was better than nothing.

Then, with a flash of inspiration, he left Sherlock propped against the doorway, grabbed the handcuffs and ties, and attached the kidnappers together and then to one of the chairs. It might not hold them for long but it would be enough to make a run for it.

He edged them carefully out of the room and on a whim decided to go left. It would be difficult to navigate them out without the detective’s sure-footed abilities.  However, considering John was carrying the weight of two of them, he figured Sherlock wouldn’t mind taking a slightly scenic route.          

“Stairs!” Sherlock shouted a few minutes later, pointing to a small set of steps, which John would have walked straight past. Maybe not entirely without direction then.

They wandered around corridors, and around the edges of open abandoned factory floors until finally, _eventually_ , there was a set of double doors.  Closed obviously, the decay of age welding it shut as much as a lock would.

“Kick it,” was Sherlock’s helpful advice.  He wanted to argue that it wasn’t as simple as that and that it was improbable he would be able to, but they were running out of options and he feared arguments would be met with stubborn insistence or worse, Sherlock trying himself.  John sighed, propped him up against the opposite wall and went to see if it _could_ be broken down.  As fun as it would be to play hero, he didn’t want to do so by throwing his back out.

It looked wobbly enough and didn’t seem to have a lock on the outside so he decided to chance it.  One kick wouldn’t hurt and if it didn’t work they could carry on. 

He couldn’t help grinning back at Sherlock’s cheer when the door crashed open.

John had to admit, these idiots knew how to pick a location.  They were in an abandoned industrial park, though he had no idea where, if they were still in London even.  A smudge of pink sunrise was visible in the distance.  The appropriated phone stated it was nearing 4:30.  No wonder Sherlock was so out of it, they’d been out for hours.  

John cursed his busted wing a few times for good measure, despite the fact he wasn’t sure he could support both their weight in flight even when his wing worked properly.

He punched in the numbers into the phone, and for the first time wished insomnia on someone else, just for the one night that it would be useful to him.

“’Strade,” the groggy voice stated.

“Hi,” John said, stretching out the vowel.  Lestrade’s sigh made him wince.

“Right, where are you then?”

“That’s sort of the problem.  We’ve got no fucking clue.”

“Clues?” Sherlock raises his head in interest but finding a lack of immediate crimes, dropped his head back onto John’s shoulder, upset.

“Was that _Sherlock_?” Lestrade said, rustling sounds signaling he was getting out of bed and changed.

“There was an unfortunate incident with an angry club owner.  Now we’re in an industrial estate in the middle of nowhere and no way to get home and three idiots knocked out in the basement.”

“Sounds like we’ve had a very eventful evening.”

John agreed.  “Not something I want to repeat anytime soon.”

“There’s a Basildon’s Furniture Warehouse and a weird tower thing and Stevenson’s Mechanics,” Sherlock chimed in.

“Hang on.  That rings a bell,” Lestrade muttered and there was a pause and clicking noises as he searched. “Fuck, that means you’re all the way near South Croydon. Right, give me a minute.  You sure you can hang tight for 30 minutes?  40 tops.”

“Errrr, yeah, we should be alright,” he said, glancing around their desolate surroundings.  They didn’t have coats, didn’t even take them to the club, the evening surprisingly mild.  John was both grateful he wouldn’t have a stroppy Sherlock with a lost Belstaff but worried he would have a freezing Sherlock with pneumonia instead.  He tucked his wings closer round them and guided them to a wall near what once would have been a car park.  Sherlock curled into him and sighed softly.  John allowed himself to rest his head gently on top of Sherlock’s and breathed deeply, exhaustion creeping into his bones.  He fought against his drifting eyelids, keeping half an ear out on the door they had escaped from. 

He could have wept when he heard sirens 33 minutes later. 

John answered a few quick questions about the whereabouts of their captors and a few basic medical questions before Lestrade hustled them into the back of his car.

“Thanks Greg,” John said, yawning.

“Just remember this moment when I ask you for a favour you don’t want to do.”

“For the last time, I’m not talking to the evidence room people for you, no matter how scary they are.  They already hate me enough because of everything Sherlock ‘borrows’ and forgets to return.”

Lestrade laughed. “But that’s why I need you to speak to them for me.  That way they might still regard me with regular disdain rather than actual loathing and they can hate you instead.”

They fell quiet as the car moved through the empty streets.  In the back of the car, lulled by the movement, Sherlock fell asleep again.  His head still rested on John’s shoulder, face slack, snoring softly, totally at ease.  John looked out of the window but his hand remained a comforting presence around Sherlock’s middle, wing still protecting him.  Lestrade pretended not to notice how similar this was to another scene he viewed recently.  Idiots, the pair of them.

He wouldn’t mention anything.  Best they work these things out for themselves. 

***

Sherlock stumbled into the living room, looking as if someone had walloped him in the face with not only a frying pan, but the entire Teflon cooking range.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” John said, smiling.  Sherlock made a noise of disgust as he stuck the kettle on.  John had woken with his own banging headache, had promptly taken ibuprofen and was sat quietly drinking tea at the kitchen table in an effort not to aggravate it anymore.  He now shoved the packet of painkillers in Sherlock’s direction and went back to his tea.  Sherlock seemed mesmerized by his mug before blinking rapidly and turning to John. 

“Did Lestrade film some of yesterday?”  His voice was scratchy and deep, and John had to repress a shiver.

“You were quite a handful getting out of the car,” John said mildly. 

There was a pause .  “Did I start ranting?”

“Yep.”

Sherlock didn’t want to ask the next question but at this point, it wasn’t really about wanting but needing to know.  “What about?”

“It was a little muffled but I believe there was something about all dogs being good dogs.”

There was a pause.  “I stand by that.”

“Thought you might.”

“I’m still going to confiscate Lestrade’s phone.”

“Just to be on the safe sense,” John agreed.

His phone went off.  Sherlock made the noise of a wounded animal and took his tea into the living room.  John made a groaning noise and stabbed at his phone, just to make the noise _stop_.

“’lo?”

“John!”  The voice on the other side sounded surprised.  It was also incredibly loud.  “It’s Becky.”  John’s mind scrambled.  Becky, who the fuck was Becky?   “From work?  You had a shift this morning.  We were worried.” 

 _Ah shit_.  To be completely honest, John had forgotten about his actual job.  The one that paid him money in return for turning up, rather than running around London at all hours after his flatmate. 

“Yeah, sorry.  Incident last night.  I’ll be right there,” he said, dragging himself from the table.  The prospect of going up the stairs was upsetting.  Nearly more upsetting than being fired for not showing up.  _Nearly_. 

“Work?” Sherlock asked from his curled position on his chair.

“Unfortunately.  You going to spend the rest of the day there?” he said enviously. 

“I need to go back to the club _again_ , see what I didn’t have time to look at.  Should be easier with a warrant.  And I need to talk to the manager, obviously.”

John scowled, unhappy with the image of Sherlock facing their captors alone, especially with the equivalent a raging hangover.  He was a good fighter with his wits about him, but they’d outnumber him and overpower him easily. 

Sherlock could tell where John’s thoughts had gone. 

“They’ll be handcuffed obviously.  Can’t imagine they’d be walking free after yesterday.” 

John nodded.  Clearly he was still half-asleep.  He still hesitated though, a fear of Sherlock being captured on his own running through him. 

Sherlock took pity on him and added gently, “I’ll be fine John.  Go to work, I’ll text you when I’m done.”

John wasn’t convinced but he also didn’t want to be fired and lose his only means of income.  “Look, just let Lestrade know what you’re doing.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, so John took out his phone and tapped out a text.

“Are you texting Lestrade?”

“Yeah.  He’ll be able to set up meetings and a warrant.”

Sherlock considered the amount of effort required to stop this happening and shrugged.  “Don’t tell him about the phone.”

John wasn’t planning on anyway.  He was fairly certain those videos contained a lot of him looking completely besotted with his blathering friend and he’d rather that was erased as soon as possible. 

He went up to get changed and then sneaked a last look at Sherlock before he went out the door.  He allowed himself to think he looked sweet: hair ruffled, swaddled in his blue dressing gown and pyjamas, limbs askew, frowning at his phone. 

“Text me,” he ordered.  And then, against all his better judgement, he went to work, hopeful the fresh air would help his aching head. 

***

There were positives and negatives to the situation. 

Negatives: the club manager was not happy to see him.  His bleary eyes had narrowed when Sherlock was shown into the room by an agitated Lestrade and if his hand weren’t in cuffs they would certainly be around Sherlock’s neck by now. 

Positives: he hadn’t been knocked out again.  And there was tea. 

“The fuck you want?”

Sherlock smiled. “Hello to you too Dimitri.  Just wondering if I could get our phones back?”

“Fuck Off,” the man snarled. 

“Not even in exchange for this?” Sherlock said pouting.  He produced the previously pocketed phone and held it up to the light, like he was evaluating a precious jewel.  Dimitri’s hands jerked up to grab it, only to jolt back to the table.  Sherlock winced sarcastically. 

“That’s annoying.  Our phones were returned to us yesterday and this is definitely being kept as evidence.  Got everything I needed from it anyway and I doubt it will be of any use to you in the near future.”

“I’m not saying anything without my lawyer present,” Dimitri said, primly. 

“Of course you’re not, but _hypothetically_ , if you _were_ going to say something…” Sherlock said but Dimitri remained unmoved. 

Sherlock sighed and leaned back.  “Fine.  Was worth a shot.  We’ll just get your henchmen to talk instead, they don’t seem that intelligent, should tell us everything that could incriminate you.”

Dimitri huffed a laugh.  “Those idiots don’t know anything.”

“So there is something to know.”

“You knew that already.”

“Yes.  But I’m not interested in any of your usual crimes,” Sherlock said, dropping the charade.  “I have just one question.  Why take us to the warehouse?”  Dimitri frowned so Sherlock continued.  “The who is obviously you, when and where are already clear, what would have happened is probably something horrific and also boring, but what remains odd is the _warehouse_.  Why not keep us in the club, surely much less obvious, no pesky smuggling us out the back, no disappearing for the night.”

“And also quite incriminating.”

“But you were never meant to kill us and we’d recognize you instantly when we escaped.  Don’t be offended, escaping was an inevitability.  Why take us to a secondary location at all?  It was an abandoned station, I can think of plenty of places to stash us.  So I would state you didn’t know about the location at all.  You were told a location and a time and you knew you had to take us there specifically but you don’t know anything at all about the background.  We weren’t supposed to be able to ring the Guards either.  Ooh, something was supposed to happen but we screwed it up for him.  That must have been annoying.  I need to look into the warehouse then.”  Sherlock stood up to leave, still entranced by the connections forming in his mind, dismissing and amending theories.

“Hey!” Dimitri said.  “Why come talk to me in the first place?”

Sherlock’s eyes refocused for a moment.  “It’s useful to talk to someone while I deduce.  John is at work, Lestrade said I shouldn’t be working the case, and Mrs Hudson took my skull.”  He said the last part sorrowfully.  He really didn’t know what he’d done to upset her.  The he took his leave, coat billowing behind him.  Walking straight passed Lestrade, he monopolized the first computer he found which was thankfully free. 

“Sherlock, what the fuck was that?” Lestrade asked, but he was ignored.  Sherlock only had eyes for the information he sought, the one that would either corroborate the main theory he had or would destroy it completely, forcing him to start again. 

“Ha!” he shouted as the system spat out the correct answer.  He turned to Lestrade, eyes shining.  “It’s obvious, blindingly obvious.  If I wasn’t so addled then I would have got there much sooner.  ”

“Explain.”

“We have been working from the idea that the Council limits have been breached and the fact they didn’t know this.  But we only have evidence for half of that statement.”

Lestrade began shaking his head.  “Sherlock, you can’t think-”

“- But if the clues fit!  After all, who owns the underground and therefore has the access to let people use it as a portal?  And, look who owns the warehouse.  It takes a few jumps but ultimately, it’s the Council’s.  Therefore, I’d say they know what’s going on and what’s more, they’re _facilitating_ it.  We need to get John, this is turned _far more_ interesting.  Which floor are they on?  Should be quicker than tracking him through London.”

Lestrade looked like he wanted to berate Sherlock but instead simply said “Four.”  Maybe John would be able to talk him out of this madness. 

Sherlock bounded up to the reception desk, bouncing on his heels were he stood. 

“Hello.  We need to speak to John Watson.  Very urgently.  Can you locate him for us?”

The receptionist glanced between him and Lestrade, who simply nodded, resigned.

“Let me just check that for you,” she said, smiling.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade.  “This is the key to everything.  Can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier, thrown by one wrong assumption.  Big things are coming.  I can sense it.”  He was practically glowing. 

The receptionist coughed politely.  “Um, I’m afraid John isn’t scheduled to work today and there’s no record of him covering another shift.”

Sherlock froze. 

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asked cautiously.

The receptionist nodded.  “He would need to use his key-card to get back here and sign-in, it would flag on our system.” 

It was not the receptionist fault and so, before Sherlock could start, Lestrade dragged him out to the corridor with a rushed “thank you”. 

“Sherlock.  You okay?  Because I need you to be okay so we can sort this.” 

Sherlock wanted to shout that, no, he wasn’t fucking _alright_. 

He wasn’t alright because he’d just solved part of the case and he needed to tell John.  He wasn’t alright because he knew John was definitely in danger, he knew that from the beginning and now he’d worked out where the danger was coming from, the highest source danger could be coming from.  A danger he couldn’t fight alone. 

He wasn’t alright because John had gone to work but wasn’t at work. 

He wasn’t alright because despite his nagging, he hadn’t heard from John at all since he’d left the house. 

He wasn’t alright because John wasn’t here and that meant one thing. 

John Watson was missing. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there! And next chapter has the scene that compelled me to start this made project in the first place so hopefully should be written quicker (but then again who knows?)
> 
> Is this the best chapter ever? I don't think so. Does it get us where we need to go? You're damn right. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and as ever comments and questions are highly appreciated!

_John was missing.  No, not missing.  Be better.  Specifics.  Kidnapped._

_It had been 13 hours since they had last been kidnapped.  13 hours.  And the clocks chimed 13.  Where’s that from?  Irrelevant.  Delete later.  Wait.  John had mentioned it.  Maybe keep._

_John missing.  John taken.  John hurt.  John injured.  John dying.  John alone._

_Alone.  He’d been alone before they’d met.  Both better off for it.  Not strictly true, he was circling danger before we interrupted.  But we saw that and dragged him directly into the heart of it.  Can’t do anything right._

_All for a friend Sherlock. Such a disappointment.  What would Mother think?_

_Can’t do anything right._

_Have to save him.  Only way.  But how?  The rules have changed._

_The game has not._

_Game changed when John appeared.  Not as fun?  More fun?  Ugh, confusing, emotional.  Not helpful._

_John missing.  John dying.  Because of you._

_Where the fuck are you Sherlock?_

_Sorry.  So sorry.  Trying.  Will get to you.  Systems offline._

_Hurry the fuck up!_

_Sherlock._

_Sorry.  Solved case.  Think so anyway._

Sherlock _._

_Only thing you’re good for._

“Sherlock!”

Something was shaking his shoulder.  Correction, _someone_. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and was immediately greeted with the sight of his knees.  This was a surprise.  He was sat on the floor, back slumped against the wall, barely upright.  The cacophony of his Mind Palace, currently in disarray, was ringing in his ears.  His eyes flickered as he tried to establish what was reality.  He kept his head down for a moment, vision swimming. 

“Sherlock?  You hear me?” 

Oh yes, Lestrade.  They’d been talking before.  He glanced over to see the angel crouched down next to him, trying to look into his eyes. 

“Yes,” he snapped and Lestrade flinched.   _You can do better than that_.  Mind-Palace John was still working then.  He was still disapproving.  So long as the others didn’t appear.  Especially _him_.  Couldn’t be dealing with snide comments at a time like this.  He focused on Lestrade, asking quietly, “What happened exactly?”

Lestrade’s shoulders relaxed and he placed a steadying hand on Sherlock’s arm.  “Well, you got this weird look on your face, like you’d shut down or something, and then you nearly fell over, so I lowered you down to the floor and now we’re blocking the entry to the offices.”

Sherlock looked around.  They were indeed out of the reception area and instead on the landing outside the lifts.  The wall he was propped against was glass and London Above rattled on, oblivious to Sherlock’s world crashing around his ears. 

“Right.  I’m assuming John has not miraculously turned up in the last few minutes?”

 _Really_?  It was not his usual speed but if there was ever a time to be an optimist…

Lestrade laughed shortly.  “Unfortunately not.  I’ve contacted everyone we know, no one had seen him since you this morning.  But we’ll find him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “I work better alone.”  He shoved himself back onto his feet, ruffling his wings and rolling his shoulders. 

 _Do you now?_  

Shut up you. 

 _Nice to know I’m missed_. 

That’s not what I meant and you know it. 

Sherlock dismissed the not-John.  Now that his brain was back online, it was shuffling the strands back into order and rising again to a fever pitch.  He needed more information.  Data.  Input.  There were too many variables at play and too much he didn’t know and each fact he didn’t _know_ put John in danger.  More danger.  It didn’t help that every time he tried to think and push his mind forward, his brain would flicker to images of John, of his hair, his eyes, his laugh, his smile, seeing John sat in his chair, in the morning making tea.  Static noise.  Too distracting. 

Lestrade heaved himself up as well.  “Correction, you work better with John.”  Was he really that obvious?  “But, lacking him, I’m second-best.  A lengthy second-best, but still, John’s missing, there’s a shady conspiracy at the Council, and you just collapsed, so supervision is required.”

Sherlock frowned.  “Thought you didn’t agree with the Council idea?” 

Lestrade sighed.  “You were out of it for a while and when I knew you weren’t going to hyperventilate, I started thinking- don’t.”  He cut off Sherlock’s snide remark before he could even form one.  “John always seems to trust you and your deductions, and you’ve not led us wrong yet, even if it does get you locked in a warehouse basement.  Plus, I’m not on shift today and I’ve got nothing better to do, so why not entertain a spot of vigilantism?”

“And you’re willing to trust me despite the fact John has been kidnapped?  Some would call that foolish,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.  “You’re not worried I’m going to fail?  I thought you and John were…close colleagues?  Surely you’d want to take a lead on this.”

Lestrade smiled.  “Friends Sherlock.  Me and John are friends.  I know you know this.  And, like I said, I trust you because he trusts you and you care about him.  We’re going to find him and he’s going to be fine.  Call it a hunch,” Lestrade said as Sherlock went to protest his naive declaration.  Instead Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Plus, John is not exactly a wilting maiden.  I’m sure he can handle himself until we get to him.  Now, repeat after me: He’s going to be fine.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  “He’s going to be fine,” Sherlock repeated, reluctantly.  He had to believe it.  There was no other option. 

“So, take a breath, and tell me what we’re going to do.”

Not-John, with his hands shoved in his pockets, turned to him with a curious look _.  Yeah, how the hell are you getting out of this one Sherlock?_

And so, for once, Sherlock did as he was told. 

“If we solve the case, we find John.  It’s clearly all linked together.  Whoever’s behind it knew I was getting close and wanted to distract me from the case.”

Lestrade nodded.  “So, let me check if I’ve got this straight up to now.  A rogue individual, or set of individuals, in the Council has been manipulating their power by allowing Fallen’s into the Council limits.  Those Fallen’s have taken on the identities of angels and obliterating them in the process.  Why?  And how the hell are we going to prove any of this?”

Annoyingly good questions.  “There must be a reason, I’m just not seeing it.”  Not-John made a face.  Sherlock ignored it, shaking his head.  “We need to review the data we have, look at everyone that’s been obliterated, see if there’s a pattern I hadn’t noticed before.”

“I think I might be able to help with that.”  Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “You need someone to gather a ton of disparate information, outside of their day job, with no tangible reward other than helping us out.”

Light bulb.  “Mallory.”

“Mallory,” Lestrade nodded.  “Shall we?” he said, indicating to the lift that had just arrived.

“Not exactly ethical for a Senior Guard,” Sherlock muttered but followed Lestrade’s lead. 

“You?  Caring about ethics?  And technically he would be helping an open investigation into a Guard’s disappearance.  I think I can swing it, legally speaking.  Also, if whoever’s playing havoc with the Council reveals themselves, irreparably breaking the rules of governance as we know them and calling into question the entire foundation of our legal system, I don’t think their first priority is going to be chastising me for use of resources.” 

Sherlock blinked.  He had assumed Lestrade was calm and he still appeared relaxed, but perhaps some moral support would not be unwelcome.  However, moral support was never really his area. 

“Well, as you said, everything will be fine?” he tried. 

“Good instinct.  Maybe leave off the question mark at the end.”

“Copy that.”

The lift dinged.  The floor was busy and most people looked up at them, throwing a wave or greeting at Lestrade.  Mallory’s desk was near the back.  Whereas the desks surrounding him seemed unoccupied, the angels working at them not visible behind piles of folders and papers, Mallory’s was pin neat, with even stacks of documents and a meticulous filing system.  Sherlock was impressed, to a very minor degree.  Maybe when this was over he would explain about his sock-index.  Mallory may be more receptive than John, who had struggled not the laugh but on seeing the hurt look in Sherlock’s eyes, asked some polite questions and allowed his own to be sorted appropriately.  The memory made something twist inside him.  Best not think of these matters. 

“Mallory?”

He could swear Mallory’s neck clicked with the force of his head snapping up.  “Yes sir!”

“You have time for a quick word?” Lestrade said, pointing towards his office. 

The ensuing scramble around the desk nearly took out at least two desks and four nearby angels.  Luckily, those surrounding had learnt to move quickly where Mallory was concerned.  Once in the office, Lestrade shut the blinds while Sherlock moved to the other side of the desk, glowering menacingly.  Mallory was undeterred.  He was certainly committed to being keen. 

“We need your help.  But, once you know this information, you can’t un-know it and it could put you in danger.  You okay with those odds?” Lestrade asked. 

“Yep.”

“No uncertainty about that?  Because it’s fine to just go back to work.  And please ignore Sherlock scowling at you.”

“No.  It’s our job.” 

Sherlock did not like Mallory.  _You do a little bit_.  No, he was irritating.  Look what dedication and fondness did for you.  _Touché_. 

Sherlock cut in.  “We need to save John and possibly the world as we know it.”  Lestrade’s dramatic outburst was apparently catching. 

Lestrade sighed.  “Apparently pressure makes him turn to melodrama.  But that is the long and short of it.  John’s gone missing and we think it’s linked in the case we’ve been working.”

Mallory seemed to take this in his stride.  “Right.  And how can _I_ help with that?” 

“We need the work on the symbols you did.  Places, histories, everything you found and anything else you can find.” 

Mallory nodded.  “Okay.  I’ll let you know what I can dig up.”

He went to leave and was at the door before Lestrade said “Oh, and Mallory?  Keep this quiet, yeah?”  The younger angel nodded again and bounded out the room. 

Lestrade swung back to Sherlock.  “That’s sorted.  What next?”

“CCTV.”  He pushed Lestrade, whose chair rolled so far, he had to grab onto the end of the desk to stop himself flying into a wall.

“You could just ask for me to search,” he grumbled. 

Sherlock made a ‘tsk’ noise, focus now entirely on the screen.  “Now let’s see if you’ve been clever,” he muttered under his breath, as he navigated to the right system.  Started his search at Baker Street.  His breath caught as he saw John stepping out the front door.  He knew he’d been in trouble, knew that John had been embroiled in this since the beginning for reasons he couldn’t work out and still he’d let him leave.  If only he’d been watching, paying attention this morning, then maybe...

“Sherlock?”

Case.  This was just a normal case.  Missing persons.  He coughed and straightened his back.  “Subject left the scene at 9:47.  Following the footage, he gets...three streets away, before cutting through this alley.”  _Didn’t you show me that cut through?  Bet you feel pretty clever now._   “N-No sign of him on the other side.  Van parked across the end of the street aaaaand- drives away, gets lost in the traffic through here and disappears.  Dead end.  As expected,” he gave the keyboard a shove and thought about hitting the computer as well.  Fucking useless. 

Before Lestrade could yell at him for destruction of property, Mallory appeared at the door.  “Sir.” 

“You can just call me Lestrade,” said the angel, on reflex, before registering Mallory’s grave expression.  “What’s happened?”

“It’s the symbols sir.  They’ve gone.”

“What do you mean gone?” Sherlock spat. 

Mallory recoiled, as if to bolt out of the room.  “As in they’re not where we last saw them?  The information I collected appears to be gone as well.”

“This is why we print things out,” Sherlock muttered darkly.  Lestrade shot him a “shut it” look and typed in address of the last known sighting of a symbol.  Nothing, just the regular grub of an outside wall. 

“You said they knew you were close.”

“Covering their tracks.  The highest clearances, the widest reaches.  They are as omnipresent as they are untouchable, highly suitable for someone to meddle where they don’t belong without repercussion,” Sherlock enunciated.   

“You sure you haven’t misplaced the folder?” Lestrade checked.  Mallory looked wounded.  He may be many things but sloppy was not one of them.

“Hoisted by your own neatness Mallory,” Sherlock said.  _No sock-index then?  You are cruel._

“But they can’t have removed everything overnight!  They’re a Council member, not a bloody superhero.”

“Villain surely Lestrade.  When the note appeared on the wall in the building across from our flat, the words evaporated.  I thought it was just a timer but perhaps-”

“Wait, what note on which wall?” Lestrade interrupted. 

Sherlock’s mind had wandered elsewhere and perhaps this is why he did not think his next sentences through.  “There was a gigantic yellow sign outside our window inviting us to look into the building opposite 221B, leading to the address for the club and everything after.  Oh, and if you’re investigating a break in, don’t bother.  Me and John had to find an alternative exit.  People can be so sensitive about using their properties as a cut-through.”

Not-John scowled at him.  Lestrade’s eye twitched.  Very quietly he said, “I’m not going to yell at you now because we are working together and this is important.  But afterwards, I am going to have some choice words for you and they are going to be very, _very_ loud.”

Sherlock shrugged but made a mental note to warn real-John when they found him.  It wouldn’t do to save him from certain danger only to have Lestrade murder him straight afterwards.

“So what do we do now?” the Senior Guard asked, restraining himself from yelling at the Fallen by the slimmest of margins.  Sherlock evaluated for a second.  It was annoying, yes, but this move wasn’t entirely unexpected.  The speed was the interesting part.  Had they taken it down a few hours ago or minutes?  As for next moves, there were two obvious avenues to follow.

“You stay here and check the victim’s files for Council links.  Start with Faber,” he said, buttoning up his coat.

“Why?”

Sherlock sighed.  “Well currently we are without evidence and apparently you are all very keen on that to convict people or whatever.  The symbols work was just us, but there are enough angels involved in the investigation to make it suspicious if the files go missing.”

He thought the distraction might help him slip away but alas, Lestrade regarded him suspiciously.  “And what will you be doing while we become buried under case files?”

“Well if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…”  He said it automatically, uncertain of where he had picked up the phrase or why it was important to keep.

“You can’t go to the Council on your own,” Lestrade said stubbornly. 

“Why not?”

“According to you, one of them may be a kidnapper with a homicidal streak.  John would kill me if something happened to you.”  The last sentence made something in Sherlock flutter.  Not-John remained oddly silent in his peripheral vision. 

“And bringing a Senior Guard would only arouse their suspicion.  It could jeopardise everything.” 

“What and you waltzing in on your own isn’t?”

He sighed.  “I know people in higher places,” Sherlock struggled with the phrasing, turning his head away.  With this he began to walk out of the office, “Don’t forget, any small detail could be important.  Use your _minds_ for once.  Lives depend on it.”

He was halfway down the corridor when Lestrade shouted back at him “What do you mean you know people?”

There was no reply.

Sherlock had taken the direct route out a window and was already in flight. 

***

The room was shrouded in a hazy darkness, light battling through the curtains, to tinge the space yellow.  He didn’t bother to flick on the light. 

The owner of the room was getting sloppy, as it didn’t take him long to pick the lock and use his powers to dismantle the hidden protections.  If only he was around to gloat at.  It was _almost_ abandoned.  Almost, as there wasn’t any dust lining the wooden features of the desk or bookshelves.  He stayed in the doorway, simply looking.  There wasn’t anything in the room he needed but old habits die hard and he had to check. 

There was the obvious.  The leather-bound books, stacked in block colours, with no names on their spines.  No personal effects on the desk.  No sentiment.  He rolled his eyes. 

He could go through the drawers, but they didn’t hold the usual pull.  

Not-John quirked an eyebrow.  _What’s this?  Taking a break?_  

“Nothing of consequence.”  Right, memory lane ticked off.  Now for the proper work. 

There were 12 Council members.  One was clearly absent so 11 to investigate.  Despite ostensibly having control over the entirety of the Above, their identities were slightly mysterious.  Names were available but gaining access to the building was a challenge, never mind meetings with members themselves.  That’s why he preferred using the fire escape and slipping in through the door on the roof.  Then, simply walk with confidence.  Some knew who he was, or more accurately who he was related to, but for those that didn’t, setting a brisk pace warded off any questions about his presence. 

This was how he managed to pull the fire alarm and slip into the various offices, whistling his way through the corridors.  The security cameras could be dealt with later and by someone other than him. 

When his mission was done, he paused and smiled.  Grabbed an apple and placed it in the middle of the abandoned desk.  His assistant would pick it up later and hopefully all charges would disappear quietly. 

Message sent. 

He loped back up to the roof and took off towards Barts. 

***

“You can stop lurking.”

Sherlock moved out the shadows into the small office.  Molly was hunched over her desk, filling out paperwork with the most lurid pink, fluffy pen he had ever seen in his life. 

“It’s a flamingo,” she said, waving it above her head to show the yellow beak poking out of the feathers. 

He blinked rapidly.  “ _Why_?” was the only thing he could say.  Molly shrugged, which was not useful. 

“Why are you hiding?”

“I have an important task I need you to do.”

“A favour Sherlock,” Molly said, swiveling to fully face him.  “You need a favour.  Generally people are quite nice to people they require favours from.”

“John’s _missing_ Molly.”  It was supposed to be commanding, a rally against nonsense such as manners, but instead came out small and panicked.  His flight across London had not been calming, as the vastness of the place was laid bare.  Finding anyone seemed impossible in such ruckus. 

Her shoulders dropped.  “He hasn’t turned up then?”  Sherlock shook his head.  He tried not to think of the hours that had passed since his disappearance, tried not to think of statistics and likelihoods of injury and worse, tried and tried, but when had his brain ever listened to him?  Everything just took too much _time_.  He clenched his jaw and forced himself back into the present. 

“Alright, what do you need?” she said, jumping up. 

He stalked out the door and into the nearest lab.  Not-John was hovering behind a table, curious.

“I need you to check these for me.”  He produced several clear plastic bags out of his coat pockets. 

 _Like Mary Poppins_. 

Who?  Wait, you’ve called me that before.

Not-John shrugged.  _I’m in your head Sherlock.  I only know what you do._

“What is all this?”

Sherlock focussed his attention back on Molly.  “People of interest.” 

“That’s a lot of people of interest,” Molly pointed out, lifting one of the bags to look at the strands of hair within.  “Human?”

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged.  “Run the test and you should be able to tell me that.”  He filed away the fact that Molly gave quite the side-eye.  “Angelic presumably.  It’s for an active investigation, including the disappearance of a Guard.  Call Lestrade if you must have official sanction.”

“I’m not questioning it.  I’m just curious as to where you got these from,” she said primly, but moved to start up the computer software and grab some gloves. 

“Wouldn’t be as fun if I told you everything.”  He started pacing, slowly meandering around the desks with his hands shoved into his pockets. 

“Would be a damn sight easier if you did though,” she grumbled.  “And why aren’t you doing this yourself?  Odd for you to ask permission.”

He huffed and mumbled an answer.  “Needaprofessionalopinion.”

“Hmmm? Didn’t quite catch that?” Molly was trying not to smile. 

He rolled his eyes and threw himself onto a stool, shoving his head onto his hands.  “You know what I said.”

“Distracted you though didn’t I?”

“I believe telling someone they are being distracted is a perfect way not to distract them.”  Molly stuck her tongue out at him.  He sighed at her theatrics.  However, he wasn’t despairing as much as he had a few moments ago.  As she started to work, anxiety crept back up to occupy the space.  If he was wrong about this, if he’d made a misstep, calculated wrong or misjudged a motivation, then this could all come crashing down.  He slumped down so his chin rested on his folded arms.  There was also the question of what to do if Molly’s research confirmed his theory.  Despite his earlier assertions, knowing he was right wasn’t going to help John much on its own, and if he played it wrong then it could put him in more danger.  Delicacy was not his forte. 

 _You’re telling me_. 

Not _helping_.  He was going to have to have words when the real-John was home.  This inability to think properly was unacceptable and entirely the angel’s fault, his presence being the only change in his life to have real impact.  His mind wandered to the dance floor of that awful club, how he had indulged, just for a second his love of dancing, because it couldn’t hurt the investigation could it, a little bit of dancing?  Seeing John stalk his way towards him and being so close together.  He didn’t really think about personal space but despite being near each other, they never really touched, just ghosted near each other.  Sherlock had wondered though, what it would be like to touch properly, to brush a hand over a hand when walking home, to press knees together in a cab ride, to lean over on the sofa and press his side against the solid form of another.  And then finally he gets his chance and everything falls apart.  Figures. 

“Okay so first result is up.  As there’s a few to get through I’m going to put them on the other screen for you alright and keep processing?” 

He raised his head up from his slumped position and heaved himself up and out of his thoughts.  Molly hadn’t looked up as she grabbed the next bag and kept going. 

It was now or never. 

He ruffled his feathers, flicked up his collar as if sheer force of will would change the results, and stalked over to the computer next to Molly’s.

Deep breath.  Click on the link.

...

So it wasn’t a Council member.  _That_ was obvious.  In fact, it didn’t even register on the system. 

First one out the gate.  He wanted to be happy.  After all, it was statistically possible.  Improbable but he should take a win at this moment in time.  And yet...

A chime as another result came in. 

Another result that also stated ‘No results found.  Please contact Guards immediately.’

He sank into the chair.  Waited for the third.  And the fourth.  And the sixth.  And the ninth.  Eleven results. 

 

Eleven _identical_ results. 

Molly looked over from where she was clearing up and realised Sherlock hadn’t moved for several minutes.  Nothing moving, eyes locked on the screen, but a mind that was racing, a marathon completed in seven minutes flat. 

“Sherlock?”

He opened his mouth to reply.  No words came out though.  How to explain that things were worse than he’d imagined, entrenched and twisted and possibly bigger than he could fix?  Because this meant that there wasn’t a _mole_ in the Council, not a lone wolf out to undermine the system, but the entire Council was compromised. 

Because, once upon a time, his own results had also come through as ‘No results found’, until he’d gone through the long winded process of registering. 

So, the Fallen’s, the _proper_ Fallen’s, the actual under-world Fallen’s had taken the Council.  And somehow he was supposed to rescue John from all this. 

“Sherlock, your phone’s buzzing.”  Molly had crept closer but her voice was faint, miles away.  He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced his phone. 

A text message lit up his screen. 

_Took you long enough.  Bored of this now darling.  Time to come home. Xxx_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter? New chapter! And it didn't take me a month to write this one! Basically this chapter contains the scene that started it all, the one idea that lodged in my head and started this whole madness, so I really really hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> (Also I can't believe I'm uploading this while I'm supposed to be at work but my supervisor isn't here and there's literally nothing esle going on)

Sherlock dropped down at the end of the road. 

It was strangely calm.  Cars still rolled down the street, a scattering of people meandered on the pavements.  What was he expecting?  Walls crumbling, children screaming, people fleeing the scene?  But no.  Even the sun was shining, albeit it weakly through the clouds.  He scowled at its feeble attempts.  

For a moment, he couldn’t move forwards.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to.  In fact, the evidence that had been uncovered showed it was imperative that he start moving immediately.  His feet, however, would not co-operate.  He physically could not propel himself down the street.  Instead he was locked in his own head.  There was too much to look for, the usual influx of data suddenly turned unreliable.  Things were much harder to dismiss as irrelevant when each could be a sign a Fallen was nearby, ready to attack him.  The effort of verifying each person rendered him immobile. 

His hands twitched where he had them shoved in his pockets.  Suddenly he had a new set of questions.  _Who are they?_   _Were they part of this?   Were they following them?  What did they know?_  He’d even hesitated to tell Molly where he was going.  Perhaps she was part of it, or whoever was posing as her anyway.  Sure, she had given him the information but that could be part of the plan.  The text message had to have been coordinated by someone and it had been so carefully timed.  Molly would not be a bad choice of victim either, in a position which gave her access to everyone flooding into the afterlife.  He chose to simply stand and say “I need to leave,” running out before any questions were asked.  Now he was here, at the end of his own bloody road, paralyzed. 

But there was still the pressing question of John.  As had proved the case throughout the investigation, the issue of his flatmate and object of the unnameable feelings swirling through his mind was the only thing that could finally make him move.  The text had said ‘home’ so home was where he headed.  As he approached the front door, the image of Mrs Hudson, alone in her flat, appeared and he clenched his fists tighter.  He was worried about John, terrified something had happened to him, but logically Sherlock knew he was a fighter who had been to war, an angel with powers to protect and defend him.  Mrs Hudson was plucky, yes, and handy with a kitchen knife, but human nonetheless and for all her talk of being careful, was as prone to run head-long into danger as her tenants.

His anxiety was not calmed as he saw there was a yellow sign on the door.  His had hovered over it, ghosting the fresh paint.  He considered his options.  Ambush?  Or a warning?  Another trick to throw him off the scent? 

“You’ve just missed them dear.”

He turned to the entrance of Speedy’s café and some of the tension in shoulders relaxed slightly as he spotted Mrs Hudson propped against the doorframe.  She looked mournfully at her front door.

“It’s going to be a pain to get that off. We might need a new one,” she sighed.  He was not conscious of moving but the next moment he was aware of arms wrapped around him, a hand patting him on the back.  He squeezed lightly once, then stepped back, and looked away as she laughed at him.  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said fondly. 

He ignored the smile on his landlady’s face.  “You saw them?” 

“I just popped in for a chat with Mrs Turner when I saw him.  Young lad, bolted before anyone could grab him.”  Sherlock was grateful to note she had heeded his warning about unnecessary details in her storytelling. 

“He didn’t go in?”

“No, just outside.  Why would he?” she asked. 

“Have you been upstairs today?” he volleyed back. 

“Yes, I’ve been up and down all day.  Figured I’d actually tidy seeing as neither of you were ever going to.” She paused before continuing, gently. “You haven’t found our John then I take it?”

“Not yet,” he said and hated the way her face fell a little.  “I have a lead though.  Lestrade is certain he will be absolutely fine,” he offered.

“Well there you are then.  Such a nice man,” she said, as if that settled everything, as if the entire universe would bend to the word of a Senior Guard and the will of his landlady.  Although, if he had to pick one person the universe may consider listening to, Mrs Hudson would be high up on the list. 

He nodded.  “Stay out of the flat.  Have more tea.”

“Don’t get into any trouble now,” she warned, pointing a finger at him.

“As if I would.”  He declined to mention the fact he was certain he was walking into a trap, again, without backup, _again_.  It was only as he walked down the street that his paranoia kicked back in and he reassessed if he had actually been talking to Mrs Hudson at all.  Either way, they had certainly captured her mannerisms and had given him his marching orders.  He was certain John, and answers, were not in the flat.  That left him with one more solution.

Both entrances to the Baker Street station was closed off with two stretches of tape.  Glancing around, he ducked under and stalked into the darkness.  The entranceway was dim, the only light source that which filtered in the open arches of the doorway.  The shops were still shuttered and there didn’t appear to be a Guard presence, despite the tape. He jumped over the barriers and paused.  There was a short upper platform, with signs for the Hammersmith & Circle or Bakerloo lines.  The tunnel to Bakerloo was dark, whereas the platform for H&C was not.  Sherlock glanced up.  The glass roof had been artificially darkened so the bright platform was noticeable.  Whoever was behind this clearly loved showmanship or possibly old spy films. He rolled his eyes.  He attempted to sneak down the Bakerloo route but was thwarted by an invisible barrier.  Not unexpected but worth a try anyway. 

Slowly, he stepped down the stairs, assessing the terrain, the two tracks silent.

As he alighted on the walkway, the glow of the lights flooded to full power and left him blinking rapidly.

He braced for an attack.

It was still empty. 

Doubt crept in.  Perhaps he had miscalculated.  Perhaps John was injured, F.A. bleeding out of him on the living room floor while he was here prating around on a closed underground station with faulty lighting. 

“Figured it out did you?”

Sherlock froze.  Footsteps approached at the other end of the platform, out of the darkness of the tunnel.  The voice was awfully, terribly familiar. 

John stepped forward into the light.  No outward injuries, steady step.  Unharmed.  Sherlock’s heart stopped.

“John?”

It couldn’t be.  Could it?  They were friends…

“You’re getting slow.” 

John was speaking oddly.  Stilted.  He was also wearing a green duffel coat, about two sizes too large for him, which Sherlock had never seen before. 

“I don’t-”

“-Oh come on.  This one’s easy.”  John swallowed awkwardly.  He lifted his arms to show what was under his coat.  Twisting around his body was a writhing purple energy.  Primed.  Deadly. 

Sherlock shuttered his expression.  Fury rose up in him, hot and sharp. 

“Alright.  Where are you?”

“Oh you’re no fun.”  That wasn’t John’s voice.  Higher pitch.  Light and breezy.  Irish?  A Fallen jumped up onto the platform and started forward, pausing just behind John.  “Hi!”

He was professionally dressed, a black Armani- no Westwood suit, polished shoes, and a ties with a pattern that looked disconcertingly like eyes.  His hair was carefully slicked back and a charming smile flickered on his lips.  He stood for a moment, his hands in his pockets, letting Sherlock examine him.  There was something troubling about him, an untamed energy sparking in his eyes, the relaxed manner in which he held John hostage.  The viper in the grass, the spider in the centre of the web, the person they’d been searching for.  And Sherlock was terrified to realised he knew him. 

“You orchestrated this?”  He was happy his voice did not shake and that he didn’t outright threaten him there and then. 

“I prefer the term consulted.  Adds a little legitimacy you know?  Jim Moriarty,” he said with a little nod to John. 

“What do you want?”

Moriarty looked amused.  “That’s the trouble with you Sherlock.  You’re all business.  I am disappointed you haven’t worked it out though.  I mean I’ve given you everything you need.”  Moriarty slung his arm around John’s shoulders, who winced slightly before locking his limbs and standing perfectly still.  Sherlock felt his jaw flex as he restrained himself from running forward and breaking Moriarty’s arm.  “I guess I have you to thank for that,” he whispered in John’s ear but with his shining black eyes locked on Sherlock. 

“Perhaps you should enlighten me,” he bit back.  Anything to get the attention away from John.  Perhaps he could give him a window to run. 

Moriarty didn’t seem inclined to rush, instead running his arm across John’s shoulders before releasing him and looking around.  “One of the original platforms you know,” he said, nodding at the surroundings.  “1863 Metropolitan line.”

“Fascinating” he said, with an arched eyebrow.  “But I fail to see how it’s relevant.”

“Oh don’t be like that.  I know history isn’t your strong suit.  And really isn’t history what this is all about?”  He flicked his eyes back to Sherlock.  He paced just behind John, brushing up against him occasionally.  “Did you know he was genuinely a Fallen once?” he stopped, turning to John.  “Made quite the name for himself before he ran away and joined this circus.  Never could settle.”

“Seems to be doing just fine here.  Perhaps it was the company that put him off,” John retorted, hands flexing into fists.

“Oooh.  He’s feisty,” Moriarty said with something close to approval.  “Maybe I can see the appeal after all,” he said to Sherlock.  “Even if he is a distraction.”

“I can assure you he is not,” Sherlock said indignantly. 

“Oh really.  I had an entire plan set up, and you two nearly ruin it by cutting out of the club early.  That’s really not like you Sherlock, you were always such a stickler for a solution,” he said with a pout. 

“You have my attention now,” he said primly, before pausing.  “Oh,” he breathed.  Moriarty’s smile twisted. 

“There you go,” he said.

“Anyone want to fill me in?” John huffed. 

“Me.  He wanted my attention.  But why do any of this?  Why not just come and find me?”

“You love a puzzle! Always have, always will, and that makes you vulnerable.  And I had other business to attend to,” Moriarty said with a shrug. 

 “The Council.”

“Indeed, your very own precious Council. I was here entirely legitimately in fact.  Not something I ever want to do again, far too easy.”

“They hired you?  To do what?”

“There’s been something of a criminal upswing here over the past few years.  Turns out getting into the better place does not automatically make people want to hold hands and sing.  So, we made a deal.  Their worst for our best.”

“They made a deal with you?” John said.

“Their own fault.  You see, John, they had a prime example of a reformed Fallen right here.”  Moriarty pointed to Sherlock as if he was a prize on a game-show.  Sherlock, for his part, felt sick. 

 “So your minions set about taking over.  But you haven’t acted upon it yet.”  His mind sped through theories, the dark eyes locked on his mocking him with every discarded thought.  And then that it clicked.  “You’re trying to get to London Below.” 

“Why?” John jumped in.

“History John,” Sherlock said.  “The Council won the battle for the afterlife.  The Fallen have decided to take the fight to the living.” 

Moriarty smirked.  “Oh honey, it’s going to be glorious.  I do a love a stop of chaos,” he said, as if sharing a naughty secret. 

“So what are we doing here? Why not start now?” 

Sherlock, for all that he was proud John was fighting, wished he would _shut up_.  As the mystery unravelled itself he was trying to keep pace with Moriarty and try to get John out of the fatal energy buzzing around him, and for that he needed more _time_.

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” Moriarty said.  Sherlock’s stomach clenched as he realised the true reason they had been gathered. 

Clinically he began.  “To get to the Below requires a lot of energy.  More energy than one angel can contain.  The Council siphons a small amount from each angel in taxes for emergencies but even then only angels can travel through their portal, registered on the system.  The Fallen needed to create an illegal one which they are able to pass through.  Historic buildings have a unique position of being connected to those in the Below world, hence this station.  The energy has come from those they destroyed.”

“We just need a little bit more,” Moriarty said.  He flicked his wrist and the platform in between Sherlock and John disappeared into a swirling mass, the same shade of purple at the bonds that kept both of them from throttling Moriarty where he stood. 

Sherlock felt like he was choking.  “No.  Not him.”  Moriarty had started to shake his head.  “Why?  It’s not fair.” He didn’t care he sounded petulant. 

“Because life isn’t fair!”  The shout echoed around the empty station.  “You could be great Sherlock, but your loyalty to this place and these people is _boring_.  It’s _ordinary_.  So I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

“You expect me to join you after you do this?” Sherlock asked. 

“I expect you to join me or die as well.  Looking at the state of you it’s probably the latter.  Such a _waste_.”

Sherlock clenched his fists to stop them shaking.  “You put John in danger on purpose.  For this?”

“Not intentionally.  He kept on arresting the hidden Fallen’s.  _Really_ annoying when you’re trying to plan a take-over.  So I sent him to you to keep him out the way.  You do have a ridiculous penchant for the hopeless cases.  But he’s run his purpose now.”

“I won’t let you,” Sherlock said, hands shaking, eyes narrowed. 

Moriarty cackled.  “Oh yeah?  And what are you going to do?”

Later, Sherlock would wonder what he would have said in reply, how he would have freed them both as well as ensuring evil did not descend to the world of man.  Perhaps he would have let Earth fall in order to protect John.  However, that would be later. 

In the present, Sherlock glanced over to John, who was staring at him with a look of quiet determination.  He nodded slightly and offered a small, sad smile.  _I’m sorry_ , he mouthed.  Sherlock frowned and Moriarty tilted his head at the silent exchange. 

They both realised John’s plan at the same time.  For both of them, it was a fraction of a second too late. 

Several things happened in that second.  Guards crashed through the barriers and appeared at the upper level of the station, above the platform.  Moriarty stepped backwards with a look of shock freezing his features, as if to run.  Sherlock stepped forward to intervene.  But before any of them could do anything, John swung round, hands raised. 

And the building began to collapse. 

Sherlock was thrown backwards as a blast ripped through the station.  For a few moments, all was chaos.  He couldn’t hear or see or move, each sense an amalgam of panic and loud and fear and purple, so much purple. 

Glass shattered.  Metal and wall bricks fell and smashed.  People were screaming, shouting.  The building rocked, as if it was tilting on its axis, inverting and spinning. 

And then, as soon as it started, it was over. 

Sherlock coughed through the dust.  He stayed still for a moment, until his ears had stopped ringing.  As far as he could tell he wasn’t substantially injured.  A few cuts and bruises. 

“Sherlock!” 

 _John_. 

He sat up quickly, scattering the debris that had landed on his body and hair.  Scanning the surroundings confirmed the expected.  The tunnel had caved in and had taken out one half of the platform with it.  The stairs were fractured as well.  The walls had splintering cracks running up them, glowing still.  All the windows were blown out and the daylight filtered through. 

And in front of him- nothing. 

A half broken platform, some sparking wires, and a crater. 

John and Moriarty were gone. 

So was the portal. 

He couldn’t move.  He wanted, more than anything, to run forward and search.  To be proven wrong.  But he knew it was pointless.  He had seen the decision being made in John’s eyes, the relaxation of his shoulders, the slope of his mouth.  Had to watch as John dragged himself round, away from Sherlock’s desperate eyes, and push as much energy out as he could manage, triggering the energy swirling round him and sending shockwaves rippling out. 

He sat.  Slumped forward.  Hands running up into his hair. 

Failed. 

He’d failed. 

John was _gone_.

 “Sherlock.”  Lestrade landed next to him, quickly crouching down, and pushing him up.  “Hey Sherlock, talk to me.  You okay?”

He tried to focus, tried to answer, but his eyes slid past Lestrade’s shoulder, to the gap.  Guards were already circling the area, taking notes, putting together the paperwork already in their minds.  How could he explain that he wasn’t physically injured, but he was certain his chest had been cleaved open and his insides removed? 

“Shit, maybe you can’t hear me,” Lestrade muttered, titling his head to look at his ears. 

“I can hear you,” Sherlock tried to snap but it came out as a whisper.  He sluggishly pushed Lestrade’s hands off his face.  The Guard’s eyes snapped to his face.

“Great.  That’s great.  Thought we might have lost you in all that.  Look, I know it’s a lot, but I need you to tell me what happened,” he said, even tone, hands hovering by his shoulders. 

Sherlock stared at him.  “How did you know I’d be here?” he asked, ignoring the request.

Lestrade frowned, but answered.  “Molly said you’d left in a hurry.  Messaged Mrs Hudson to see if she’d heard anything and she said you’d gone this way.”  He paused, choosing his next words carefully.  “We didn’t get a good look down here, but you didn’t seem to be alone?”

“John.”  Strange, how a name so normal could suddenly feel so different.  His eyes kept flickering over to the scene before him, eventually landing on a brick precariously balanced over rubble.  “And a Fallen, named Moriarty.”  He spat out the name. 

He watched as Lestrade half turned, surveying the scene.  Trying to work out where they were, his brain helpfully provided.  “And Moriarty was-”

“Behind all this, yes,” he said wearily. 

“And he caused the roof to cave in.”

“No, that was John.”  Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  “He was provoked.  There was a portal, to Earth, and the only way to stop it was to destroy it.  He was wrapped up in some destruction spell anyway, so he used his powers and-” he waved in the direction of the crater that now contained them both.  A lump stuck in his throat and he felt his lip wobble.  Delayed reaction.  Shock. 

“Oh.”  Lestrade fell from his hunched position.  Sherlock looked over at him.  Ah.  He and John were friends.  This would be upsetting.  He didn’t have any words, between his own emotions over-spilling and his lack of social etiquette knowledge, so he simply leaned over until his shoulder rested on Lestrade’s.  Solidarity, in the place of comfort.  Words would be useless anyway. 

“There’s only one.”

Both stared up, uncomprehending.  A dishevelled looking Mallory stood in front of them, moving restlessly from foot to foot, glancing behind his shoulder every few seconds. 

“What do you mean there’s only one?  One what?” Lestrade asked, voice hollow. 

Mallory pointed behind him.  “I heard you talking.  There’s only one set of F.A.  If there were two people, there would be two sets of F.A. and two origins of the splinter marks, but there’s only one.”

“So that means-” Lestrade sat up straighter and then pulled himself to his feet.

“One of them made it through,” Sherlock said, nodding. 

“But which one?” Mallory asked. 

Their eyes flickered to the glittering substance at the epicentre. 

“Well there’s one way to find out,” Sherlock said. 

He still felt flat, battling against the thing struggling in his stomach, rising into his chest.  However once sparked, it was not easy to contain.

After all, hope is the thing with feathers.  But things with feathers could fall.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swoops in on the last day of March with a new chapter which means this will be done by April (barring any major catastrophes). Big old chapter for you which hopefully makes up for the month wait and it means there's only one more chapter to go which is both a relief and terrifying. As ever, comments and kudos are appreciated (and genuinely do make me write quicker, honest!)

“Sherlock?  You want to get up?  Bit of a time sensitive situation going on here.”

Sherlock blinked up at Lestrade. 

After hearing there might be a chance of John being alive, Lestrade had jumped up and pushed past Mallory to the scene, falling back into leadership mode.  Mallory scuttled off to assist, yelling at an idiot putting weight on a flimsy looking balustrade.  Sherlock had to admit he was not entirely insufferable, as far as Guards went.  

He looked down at his hands, noting the scratches on his palms.  A small piece of glass was still stuck in one.  He circled it.  Probably against medical advice to pull it out.  However no one here was focusing on him so he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.  It stung a little as he drew it out, the cut welling with black liquid. 

He was still mesmerised by this when Lestrade arrived again and attempted to rally him into action. 

“It might not be him,” he said, still staring at his palm. 

Lestrade nodded.  “Understood.  But you can’t live on this decimated platform forever.  Mainly because now, it’s technically a crime scene.  Come on,” he said, holding out a hand.  Gently, Lestrade pulled him up and frowned at his now bleeding hand.  “We’ll get that sorted out too.”

“S’fine,” Sherlock said with a shrug.  Shards of glass, pieces of wood, and dust fell down as he shook out his wings and ruffled his hair, Lestrade helping dust down his coat. 

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine!” he shouted.  Lestrade scowled at him and Sherlock waited for him to fight back.  Instead, he was pulled towards the exit.  Sherlock was tempted to refuse to fly up to the platform but he couldn’t be sure Lestrade wouldn’t enlist Mallory to haul him up and he would rather avoid the indignity. 

Lestrade waited until they were out of the station and part way down Baker Street, out of the ear shot of other Guards, before he started talking. 

“Look, you might have given up, but I haven’t so you’re going to have to put some effort in.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to pout.  “I haven’t given up.  There’s an equal probability it isn’t him.  I refuse to become ensnared in a pointless belief without any evidence.  It’s illogical,” he snapped.  “Wait, where are we going?”

“We’re going to see Molly.”

This was not what Sherlock was expecting.  “Why?”

“Because,” Lestrade said, shoving his hands in his pockets and producing a plastic evidence bag.  “I have a bit of the F.A. and we’re going to find out who it belongs to.”

It ...wasn’t a terrible plan. 

“John said you were picky about taking things from crime scenes.”

“Is this because he wouldn’t bring back that poisoned plant for you?  Because as discussed, it was highly toxic, and you aren’t a part of the force.  What we are doing now is following a lead.  Like proper detectives.”

He was going to ignore it.  And yet- “I am a proper detective.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”

Sherlock considered for a moment before adding, “A proper detective would just fly over.”

“You were out of it for a bit, didn’t think it was safe to let you hit into lampposts.”

Sherlock thought that it wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened that day, but wisely chose to keep it to himself. 

Even on foot it didn’t take them long to get to St Barts.  The basement floor was busier than earlier.  There were a few other professionals gathered in the break-room and some of the classrooms were in use.  They must have been quite the sight, with several people moving out of their way swiftly and staring.  Molly had taken over a desk in one of the classrooms, and was carefully guarding it, glaring at people who came too close. 

Lestrade made a beeline, holding his hands up when she brandished a scalpel at him without looking up.  “Molly!  We need you to run this for us.” 

She dropped the makeshift weapon and started to smile before actually looking at them and scowling.  It wasn’t clear whether it was from concern for them or for her lab.  “What is it?”

“Evidence,” Sherlock cut in.  “But first, some questions for you.  Where did we first meet?”

She paused and looked between them.  “We met here.  You took a pair of feet and told me not to ring Security.”

“When’s Mrs Hudson’s birthday?”

“June 9th.”

“When’s my birthday?”

“You don’t tell people your birthday.”

Lestrade pulled his sleeve and twisted him away from Molly.  “Sherlock.  What are you doing?”

“Checking she’s Molly,” he said.  Lestrade looked at him for a moment.  Sherlock sighed.  “Need I remind you that there are currently 11 Fallen’s pretending to be Council members.  I admit it’s a bit of a crude way of verifying but it’s all we have at the moment.”

Lestrade considered this and nodded.  “Good call.  So we good?” he said, tilting his head towards Molly.  Sherlock nodded.  “Great!  So Molly, can you run this?  We need to see who it belongs to.  Not to overstate things but the fate of the Earth may rest on it.”

“So glad you didn’t hold back on that.”  Molly then hesitated and Sherlock’s heart plummeted.  “And I would love to.  But-”

Lestrade winced.  “Oh no.”

“-The system went down just after Sherlock left.  No update on when it’s back online.”

“Council?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded.  “Almost certainly.” 

Molly frowned.  “The Council?” she asked but the others ignored her. 

“So what do we do now?”

“I see only one solution.”  Molly and Lestrade looked at him.  “I need to go to Earth.”

“What?” both asked at the same time. 

“Either John is there or Moriarty.  If it’s John, excellent.  If it is Moriarty he needs to pay for what he’s done.”

“And you know, stop the apocalypse from happening.” Sherlock shrugged.  A secondary concern but if that’s what it took for them to get on board. 

Molly clapped her hands in between their faces.  “Anyone want to fill me in?  Who’s Moriarty?  And John’s on Earth?”  

Sherlock looked at her.  “Ah yes.  A lot has happened since we last updated you.”

“Do we have somewhere less busy to speak?” Lestrade said, glancing round. 

Molly looked around at the three other techs also in the lab.  Then she yelled “Guys I need to room!”  Sherlock was startled that everyone listened but Molly just shrugged.  “People are sort of scared of me.”

There were bigger problems but Sherlock filed it away for later. 

So Lestrade began to explain.  He summarised the situation as best he could, tracing the events from the stake-out, to the kidnapping, to the Council, to the _other_ kidnapping, to Moriarty, and Sherlock felt his body winding tenser, and tenser, and _tenser_.  Fists clenching, arms flexing, a knot in his stomach twisting. 

He glared out the window, refusing to meet Molly’s increasingly pitying gaze. 

This did not prevent him from hearing her say “Oh Sherlock.”

“It’s fine.”

“But-”

“Molly.  Please.”

She started to say something but bit her lip.  Nodded.  “Okay, so thinking positively, John could technically be on Earth.”

“Correct,” he conceded. 

Molly started pacing.  “And your plan is to go to Earth and either rescue John or confront this Moriarty guy?”

“Yes.”

“Can you actually get to Earth?  You know, with the wings?”

Lestrade shrugged.  “If his souls registered, it should be fine.  Part of the reason the others can’t get down is because their souls don’t match their bodies.  Wait,” he turned to Sherlock scowling.  “How do we you’re actually Sherlock?”

“I have literally led you to every piece of evidence you have on this case,” Sherlock said, scandalised. 

Lestrade shrugged.  “Had to check.”

“Alright, but if all you need is a registration, can’t the Fallen’s in the Council’s register their souls and use it to funnel the other Fallen’s through?” Molly asked. 

Dammit. 

“Shit,” Lestrade said.  He stared at Sherlock.  “We need to-”

“I know.”  It did not mean he had to like it. 

“But we’ll find some other way-”

Sherlock nodded, wishing him to stop talking.  “Understood.”

“It’s just until we’ve found the other Fallen’s.  Then we can re-open it and you can go find them.  We can even get the system back up.”

“Yes.  Fine.”

“I’m going to call this in.”  Lestrade disappeared out the room. 

Molly stopped pacing and came to stand next to him.  “So, what next?” 

He ruffled his feathers and drew up to his full height.  “Well.  To move on, we need to solve the case.”

“Sherlock, they could be anyone.  Where would you even start?”

“I think I have a lead.  Excuse me.  You may go back to terrorising your co-workers.”

Molly stared at him, concerned, but decided it wasn’t worth the fight.  “Fine.  Keep us posted okay?”

He nodded but his eyes were already unfocussed, the pieces in his mind already interlocking and connecting.  It appeared, the game was still on. 

***

The woman didn’t look up from her nails as he approached. 

“Haven’t seen you for a while.”

She was huddled in a big duffel coat despite the clement weather and had her hair pinned back into two smaller buns on the side of her head.  The doorway behind her was boarded up, the shop dark.  He shrugged at her comment, leaning against the wall next to her. 

“Been busy.” 

Trusting her was a risk.  Trusting anyone at the moment was a risk.  However, he was running out of options and there would have been easier marks for the Fallen to swap.

“I need you to find someone for me.”

She held her hand out.  In it, he placed a roll of money and a slip of paper.

“Okay.  We’ll be in touch.”

He nodded and shoved his hands back into his pockets, taking off back down the street.  His hand found the vial containing the small glowing fragment that was tethering him to his mission. 

All that was left was to wait. 

***

There was a crack of sunlight spilling through the curtains.  It was directly in his line of sight, taunting him from where he was curled up in his chair.  More accurately, he had sandwiched himself sideways, with both his knees and his chin curled to his chest, as close to a ball shape as he could manage. 

He hated it, the sunlight.  Just like he hated everything.  Well, nearly everything.

His eyes flickered forward to the other chair.  He had been tempted to move it into his room but the idea of touching anything in the flat was abhorrent.  Everything was in exactly the same place as he had left it that morning and that’s how it would remain. 

Stubbornly, he looked back at the sunlight, attempting to hunch further inwards.

It had been a week since the incident. 

He was not too proud to admit that in the immediate aftermath he was in a mild state of shock which had momentarily incapacitated him.  However, after leaving Molly’s lab, he had a goal to work towards.  To get to earth, he had to ensure the portals were re-opened.  To re-open the portals, they had to round up the Fallen’s that had managed to slip through the barriers and bring them in. 

He went for the easiest, yet most troublesome set first.  There was only a limited amount of time before the fake-Council caught wind of the fact they no longer had a captain, and then it would be a race between them and the Guards.  Luckily, all he had to do was retrace his steps.  Lestrade had insisted on coming with him, arguing fairly competently that, as the amount the people they could truly trust was fairly limited, it was in their best interests to keep each other alive for now.  What the Guard was not prepared for was the ferocity with which Sherlock attacked his task.  Using the empty room as a base, he gathered the traitors with a well-placed email threatening retribution from Moriarty if they didn’t respond.  It was upsettingly easy to assemble them, and there was only a minor scuffle towards the end which was disappointing. 

As they secretly hauled the guilty into holding, with the help of Mallory, he was itching to move on to the next target.  All he needed was access to was the right data.  He was scouting in Lestrade’s office when he was brought even more bad news. 

“In order to make this work, we’re going to need to be secretive.  It’s not going to take long before those on the ground realise something’s gone sideways which means we need to do this properly.  Molly’s already received orders to vet as many of her people as she can so we can start going through this-”

“- You cannot seriously be considering doing this individually?”

Lestrade didn’t meet his eye and instead addressed Sherlock’s left ear.  “Certain individuals.”

Sherlock gripped the back of the office chair.  “But that could take decades...”  The thought was horrific. 

“Look, we’re dealing with a security breach on an unprecedented scale.  Until we have a list of all the Fallen currently in Council limits, and their new identities, there’s nothing else we can do.”

“I’m getting you a list,” he said. 

“How?”

“Raz.”

Lestrade looked incredulous.  “Who?  The tagger?  The _Fallen_ tagger?”

“He didn’t take on a new identity.  He’s used to living on the streets, he had no need to blend in with the populous or pass any scanners that would pick him up.  I’m working on reaching him, to get a list.” 

Lestrade pursed his lips, considering.  He begrudgingly nodded.  “Okay.  Just make sure he’s quick about it yeah?”

Sherlock was glad Lestrade didn’t ask for more explanation.  He was very protective of his network.  It was a sprawling contingent of people interconnected across the Above, the first to pick up on the slightest inconsistency or scent of trouble.  He had spent years building it, weaving the strings together to create an instrument that was perfectly in tune with its environment 

He’d sent them out to track down Raz the night of the Fall. 

_Two._

_Weeks._

_Ago_. 

The first week was spent running, through streets real and imaginary, tracing and tracking to see if he had any luck on his own.  He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, and chain-smoked manically .  All his energy was consumed by being ready for the call, spending hours sat in his chair with his eyes trained on the door. 

But, as the days drew on, mania turned to lethargy.  He couldn’t mark when the tipping point was.  All he knew was that one day he was crackling with energy and the next, it was a trial to even open his eyes.  Hope, stupid illogical hope, had somehow seeped into his bones and now it was crumbling.  Mind Palace John had disappeared.  The F.A. had dimmed.  The signs were pointing towards the devastating. 

Even when Mrs Hudson called up to announce a young man was here to see him, by the end of the fortnight, he could barely rally the energy to be pleased about it.  It was probably useless anyway.  However, he did manage to prop himself up. 

Cool.  Calm.  Confident.  He was still in control.  A figure appeared in the door.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Raz, who was dressed in his customary tracksuit, was about to answer before he stopped dead in the doorway. 

“What happened to _you_?” he asked incredulously. 

Sherlock was uncertain what he was speaking of at first but following Raz’s gaze it soon became obvious. 

His wings were decimated. 

He didn’t realise he was doing it at first.  It was only when Mrs Hudson complained about the amount of sweeping, and then went curiously silent, that he looked in a mirror to find he had huge bald patches across his usually luscious wings. It was a habit from childhood he had thought he had tamed, a nervous tick that manifested under extreme stress like biting fingernails or the clicking of a pen.   

He shrugged.  “Unimportant.”

“Doesn’t look unimportant.  You should let a Healer look at you.”  It would be touching if he wasn’t obviously evading something, shifting on his feet as if to bolt back down the stairs. 

“There is only one Healer I wish to see and I don’t even know if he still exists so if you don’t mind I actually brought you here for a reason.”

Annoyingly, Raz’s eyes softened into understanding.  “Yeah, I heard what happened.”

“So you know why you’re here.”

Raz ambled over to sprawl on the sofa.  He reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper, scruffily folded into four.  “I think the question is, what do I get for it?”

Sherlock paused for a second.  Lestrade hadn’t explicitly said anything about bargaining but his sentiment might swing it and either way it wouldn’t be his problem to deal with.  However, it wouldn’t do to let him be too cocky.  

“What would you like?” he asked. 

Raz had his answer prepared.  “Immunity.  Across the board.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock mused.  “Might be tricky.  You really have been awful.”  If he lunged he could probably snatch it from his hands.  He’d only get one shot but he could be very wily when required.  Raz seemed to notice his calculations and gripped the paper tighter, holding it further away. 

“Guess it depends on how much it matters to you.”

“Well this is an ongoing investigation.  What’s to stop me ringing the Guards now and having you hauled away for obstruction of justice?”

“The fact you hate working with the Guards.”  He almost laughed.  “Come on Sherlock.  Cut us some slack, I’m really trying to help you here.”

He sighed.  “By using it as a bargaining chip.  I could probably get them to grant you asylum, _if_ you promise to fully reform your ways-”

Raz nodded.  “Sure I-”

“- And you relinquish your powers.”

“What?!”

Sherlock shrugged.  “You know how picky they can be about these things,” he said, picking the fluff off his dressing gown.

“You didn’t have to do any of that shit.”

“Yes, well I’m special.”

“Connected more like,” Raz grumbled. 

Sherlock had to concede the point.  “I’m sure you can still get into a host of trouble without the ability to magically pick-locks.  I’ve always admired how resourceful you can be.”

“If you’re giving out compliments you must be fucking desperate.”

“You have no idea.”  His voice was low, murmuring to himself more than to the other Fallen. 

Raz started, momentarily surprised. He pondered for a minute and then carefully held out the paper.  “Because you’re a mate.”

Sherlock’s breath caught.  If this was a trap he was going to kill Raz right there in the living room.  Mrs Hudson would be pissed but it would be worth it. 

He, equally as carefully, walked over and plucked the scrap out of his hands.  “I’ll see what I can do.  After all, they still need snitches.”

“Hey, I don’t fucking snitch.”

“You literally just have.”

Raz looked upset at this revelation.  “Yeah, well they’re all twats anyway.  And I won’t anymore.”

“Yes you will,” Sherlock said, eyes focussed on the paper.

“Yeah, probably,” Raz agreed, his guilt short-lived.  “Look, it won’t bite you know.”  He nodded to the list.  “Just read it and get going earth-wise.”

Sherlock was about to agree he was being illogical when instead he said, “I never said what I needed this for.”

Raz just winked.  “Didn’t need to.  Right, I’ll see you later.  Or maybe not.  Just talk to the man for me won’t you.  Tell them I’ll be good as anything.” 

With that, he jumped out the window, swooping to the pavement below. 

Sherlock watched him leave, then returned to his chair, turning the paper over and over again between his fingers.

He was being ridiculous. 

This was what he wanted.  In fact, he’d explicitly sought it out. 

Still he didn’t open it.

Because this was it.  Once he handed over the paper, he would be able to find his own answers.  He’d never been afraid of a question before.

His natural curiosity had always overcome any embarrassment or sense of societal propriety.  Questions had answers and Sherlock wanted answers, so Sherlock asked questions.  It was as simple as that. 

But this was different.  This was important. 

It took him a moment to realise Mrs Hudson had appeared with tea.  She was the one person he didn’t begrudge sitting in John’s chair.  It was, after all, her own chair. 

“That young man left then?”

“Hmm.  Unfortunately you cannot ply him with biscuits.”

“Well I’ll settle for you instead,” she said, pushing the selection towards him.  He ignored the offering until she busied herself with glaring pointedly at the dust on the bookshelf before swiping the digestives. 

He kept waiting for her to talk but she seemed happy to just sit.  It was a test of wills.  A battle.  The rock vs a hard place.  He wouldn’t break.  He had a lot of things to think about.

“It’s the list.”  He waved it, just in case she hadn’t noticed.  While in his manic phase, Lestrade had come round to explain the situation to her and give her full warning.  Sherlock would have argued with it if he’d been paying attention long enough to care. 

“That’s good.” 

“Maybe.”

She took an expressive sip of her tea. 

“I could work it out myself,” he said.  He tucked his feet underneath him.  “Up here I mean.”

“And have you?” she asked bluntly. 

He pouted.  “No.”

“Well there we are then.  Drive yourself mad with hypotheticals or get some solid answers and then head back here when you’re ready.”

Sherlock fought a smile.  “I hate it when your sensible.”

“You’d never get anywhere if I wasn’t.”

“I might not come back,” he said fidgeting. 

“One day you will.  I’m sure we’ll survive in the meantime.  Now go and get our boy back.”

He picked up his phone and sent a text that would change everything. 

***

It was Mrs Hudson’s words which echoed in his ears as he picked up the call from Lestrade the next morning. 

“You ready?”

“Obviously.”  He tried to ignore the rolling of his stomach and the way his mind wanted him to yell “NO”. 

Lestrade rattled off an address and a time before cutting the line mid-yell at some subordinate. 

His hand dropped to his side.  As he looked around the living room, his heart ached.  He needed to know what was on the other side, _that_ was the imperative, he’d told everyone that this was the most important thing to him at the time.  This was true. 

It was also true that a small part of him didn’t want to leave.  He looked around at his collected life, displayed on the mantelpiece and the bookshelf and, well, any flat surface.  He had moved in when a successful case had turned into having a pseudo-mother who insisted he should take the flat.  And then John had arrived and made it home.  He was still uncertain of how he had done this in such a short space of time but from the moment he had arrived the entire building seemed to settle into its foundations.  This was where _their_ home.  The idea of returning empty handed was unbearable, to the point that it might be better not to try at all. 

However, Mrs Hudson had given him his marching orders.  It was time to say goodbye. 

He armoured himself in his coat and didn’t look back as he left the building. 

Into battle.

***

He was surprised to see Molly waiting outside for him.  She was not difficult to spot, her chunky, pink knit cardigan clashing with the sleek, white, Kensington town houses around her. 

“Big Day,” she said as he approached.  He shrugged.  He was also not expecting her to punch his arm. 

“Ow!  Why?” he asked bewildered. 

She was scowling at him.  “Try again.”

“Yes, it is a “Big Day”, as you call it.”

“Nervous?”

“No.”  She raised her arm again in warning. 

“Sherlock.”

“Fine!  A little.” 

She seemed pleased at his relenting.  “He’ll be really happy to see you.”

“You believe it will be John?”

“Of course.  Don’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted down.  “I don’t believe in theorising without all the facts.”

“I’ll believe enough for the both of us then.”  Perhaps it was the conviction in her voice that convinced him to show her. 

“You’ve been talking to Mrs Hudson haven’t you?” he said, narrowing his eyes. 

“We may have texted.  She’s going to teach me how to bake.”

Unconsciously, he dug out the F.A. he’d been keeping in his pocket.  It was unclear if it would survive the journey, but he was bringing it anyway.  He didn’t know why but it seemed important that he show someone. 

“You kept it?”

He sniffed.  “Ridiculous.  Sentimental.”

“Yes, you are being both those things.” Molly smirked. 

“It might be all I have left.” 

There was nothing to say so Molly just squeezed his hand and gave him a supportive smile. 

“Come on, Greg’s inside.”  She led them inside, past a black door that was near identical to its neighbours, and down the hallway.  Through the dark he could see furniture covered in tarpaulin suggesting this was formerly someone’s home but the walls all a blank white. 

“What is this place?” he asked as they took the stairs down to the basement. 

“Not entirely sure.  Lestrade said he called in a favour and this is where they said to set up so, here we are.”

“I thought you would both be busy saving the lives of millions.”

“Never too busy for true love.”  He was going to argue with her but then remembered the vial in his pocket.  “Plus, we owe you.  Consider our debt repaid.”  Her voice echoed up the high ceilings.  The cellar was as grand as the rest of the house but empty apart from Lestrade and a portal. 

It looked as volatile as it had the last time.  Sherlock felt slightly nauseous looking at it, torn between a feeling on falling and a wild animal desire to run. 

“Hey Sherlock.  You ready?”  Lestrade asked.  He looked exhausted but chipper.  The round-up was clearly going well then. 

“Yes.  Why do people keep asking me that?” he snapped, still eyeing the portal warily. 

“Because you look as if you’re about to vomit?”  Sherlock glared at Molly who shrugged.  “You do.”

“What do I need to do?” he asked Lestrade. 

“You just...jump.”

Sherlock turned his glare onto the Guard instead.  “That doesn’t seem very technical for such a delicate process.”

Lestrade sighed.  “Sorry there isn’t more to it.  All the technical elements have been dealt with.  You’re registered on the system, the link to the Below seems good.  Had orders that this was a great place for it.  All that’s needed now is you.”

“It will work? I mean, I can go through can’t I?” Sherlock asked, still sceptical. 

“Tried and tested.  Wouldn’t have got your hopes up otherwise.  Now, come on,” he said, pulling Sherlock’s sleeve so he was stood directly in front of the portal. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock said, attempting to shrug him off.

“Helping.  Now close your eyes and calm down.  When I say one, you jump.”

He stared for a moment.  Then he turned round and cut Lestrade’s exasperated reply before it started. 

“Thank you.  Both of you.”

Both look shocked.  Molly recovered first, grinning.  “Our pleasure.” 

Lestrade nodded in agreement.  “We wouldn’t have solved it without you.  And you made him happy so, you know, we owed you one.  Now turn around before we get over emotional.”

Sherlock did as he was told.  He clenched his hands into fists so they would stop shaking, gritted his teeth.  He thought of John as Lestrade counted down.

“Right. Three. Two-”

Admittedly he should have seen it coming.

Before he could react, he felt Lestrade push his back, so he had no choice but to tip forward into London Below.

And everything went black. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here we are. The final curtain.   
> I may waffle on a bit here so please bear with me. I started this fic with the image of John falling through a portal and Sherlock's reaction. 60k words later, this is the result. This is the longest fic I have ever written. Actually it's the longest thing I've ever written full stop and for that, I have to be a little bit proud of it. I am fully aware it isn't perfect and could have probably been improved by writing the full thing out and then editing it in on big go. We live and we learn! 
> 
> So, bearing that in mind, I want to say a huge, massive thank you to everyone that's read along, especially you guys who have commented (looking directly at you Purrfectlmt). Without them as encouragement, it would have taken me waaaay longer to finish this (and considering how long it took me to write this in the first place, I don't think any of us would have been able to cope with that). There's a question for you at the end about a possible epilogue which is the final thing I will ask of you.
> 
> Finally, I hope you all enjoy this final chapter and I really really hope it was worth the wait!

He had not expected being obliterated to be so _painful_.  One of the few certainties of the total termination of existence had always been the lack of feeling at all, physical or otherwise. 

This was not a lack of feeling. 

This was every sensation possible happening simultaneously.  His head was both being pushed around in the G-Force machine used to trial astronauts while also being stabbed by tiny needles.  He couldn’t feel his limbs and felt like the air was an oppressive substance pushing down on every inch of his body.  Even the thought of trying to move seemed on par with not only climbing Mount Kilamnjaro but single-handedly pushing it the circumference of the Earth to return it to its current position and _then_ climbing to the summit. 

“Oh dear brother mine.  What a dilemma you are in.”

For love of all in the universe.  Hadn’t he suffered enough?

He attempted to say “Fuck off Mycroft.”  What actually came out was a “urghhhh” noise.  His throat was clearly now a scratching-post for kittens. 

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve missed me a great deal.”  The sadist sounded like he was enjoying this.

“UNHHHHHH.” 

Mycroft sighed.  “Here.”

A straw was pushed against his lips.  He thought for a moment of refusing but the moment a drop of water hit his lips he abandoned his pride and drank.  He did however try to spit out the straw afterwards in protest.  He strongly suspected it was not as hard-hitting as he wanted it to be. 

“Right, now how about opening your eyes?” Mycroft said patronisingly. 

“Piss off Mycroft.”  Ah, there it was.  Suddenly he felt settled.  Apparently at the absence of all other senses, insulting your brother was a fast-track to orientating yourself. 

“If only we could harness your wit as electricity, we could power the national grid.  Alas, a loss for us all.”

“We could power most of Europe with the amount of cake you eat.”  It was not his best but he was rusty after all.  He had not had the unpleasant experience of his brother’s company for some time.  This was not aided by the fact his face was mashed into a pillow as a result of him lying on his front. 

“One has to take all the small pleasures life offers us Sherlock.  Now, unless you’d like to spend the rest of your life in my spare room, I suggest you open your eyes so you can begin.”

He sighed, despite the fact it made his ribs hurt.  He then tried to roll over and managed to get onto his right side.  It then took a moment to quell the overwhelming urge to either black out or throw up.  Or both.  His eyelids weighed about 60 pounds each, but he managed to claw them open a little.  Even then the weak sunlight was offensive.  More offensive was the sight of his brother, sat primly in his customary three-piece suit, a polite smile on his face.  He even had a leg crossed over the other.  In Mycroft language that was practically lounging. 

“Begin what?”

“Explaining yourself.”  The tone was still pleasant, as breezy as a garden party in late June.  However Sherlock knew his brother and, as usual, he was in trouble for something. 

He made a half-hearted attempt at a shrug.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Six months ago, I leave to attend to urgent business in the mortal realm-”

Sherlock scoffed.  “Urgent business.”

“Political upheaval, international espionage, and the threat of war are generally regarded as important to those not entirely absorbed themselves and predicaments of their own making.”  Sherlock did not bother to dignify that with an answer.  Mycroft carried on.  “I left six months ago, and all was well in the Above.  You can imagine my surprise that within this relatively short time frame, my brother not only managed to become embroiled in a high-level murder case with ties to the Fallen realm, a realm I don’t mind adding, he is forbidden from having _any_ contact with, but also deigned to work with the Guards and won himself a flatmate who has a military background and a clear penchant for danger. Along the way he insulted many people in leadership positions, managed to be kidnapped, illegally broke and entered into someone’s home, and destroy a tube station causing a level of damage which is frankly astounding even by your standards.  I was wondering if you had anything to add.”

Sherlock considered for a moment, picking at the bed sheets. 

“Technically the Guards worked with me.”

“Sherlock-” Mycroft warned.

“What would you like me to say?  That you were right?”  It was difficult to sound angry when one was bed-bound but no one could say he didn’t try. 

This stalled him.  “I believe the day you admit I am right, the universe will have no other choice but to collapse in on itself,” Mycroft said lightly.

“And the day you admit I’m right?”

“Will never happen brother dearest.”

Sherlock didn’t want to smile.  However there was a certain comfort in the consistency that was his brother, even if that consistency was constantly being an arsehole. 

“What happened?” Mycroft tried again. 

“It seems you have a clear version of events, why bother repeating what you already know.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “I know a version of events.  I feel that even with my powers, I have only scratched the surface.”

“Do give yourself credit Mycroft.  I’m sure your spies have been very thorough.”

“I will once again remind you that I am a low-level Council employee who may use resources with the utmost discretion.  It does not grant me the ability to be omnipotent,” he said, picking imaginary lint off his jacket.

“A fact that haunts you to this day.”  Sherlock smirked and was so buoyed, he felt he had the strength to roll over onto his back and to try and sit up properly. 

Suddenly he did not feel in such a good humour.

“Where the fuck are my wings?”

The usual feeling of feather and bone was curiously absent.  He experimentally tried to move them but there was nothing.  Not a pain or a numbness but a nothing. 

“Ah.” Mycroft, momentarily, looked uncomfortable.  Mycroft had not looked uncomfortable for about three decades.  This was not good news. 

“Don’t ‘Ah’ me Mycroft,” he spat. 

“It seems to be a symptom of Fallen’s moving through a portal.  Not a well-known by-product but pertinent none the less.”

Sherlock wanted to hit him.  “And you never mentioned this?”

Mycroft inspected his fingernails.  “It was...an oversight.”

He huffed and slumped into the bed.  Trust Mycroft to turn everything to shit.  No John.  No wings.  No violin to screech when upset.

Mycroft was not inclined to play along.  “Yes, please do sulk.  I find self-pity is the most productive emotion.  But, when you decide you would like to cause more havoc in my life, you are needed downstairs.”

“I have my own issues to resolve Mycroft,” he muttered.

“And yet you will have to indulge mine for a moment,” he said, standing up.  “Or are you planning on living under a bridge while you become acquainted with the world?”

Sherlock glared at his feet for a second, arms crossed against his chest.  “I still feel ill.”

“You may wear you’re pyjamas if you wish.  Now the sooner we deal with this, the sooner you may get on with,” he waved his hand.  “Whatever it is you need to do.”  He stood up and nodded.  “Downstairs.  Five minutes.”  With this he left the room, presumably to continue being a dick elsewhere in this ridiculous home. 

He looked around the room.  Far too much dark oak wood for his taste and the large painting above the fireplace was overkill.  However, he would begrudgingly admit it was not entirely horrendous, for a temporary location.  The navy dressing gown hanging on the door was also appreciated.  Now all he had to do was reach it.

He shuffled his way across the hallway, his head still pounding.  He could only think a few steps ahead.  This stupid errand first.  Then a nap which would hopefully clear up any other side-effects of the jump.  Then abuse Mycroft’s high security level to begin the pursuit of the truth. 

If he ever made it through this house.  Had he taken over the entirety of East Kensington?  He knew Mycroft shared his disdain for other people but this was taking the piss.  When he had found and successfully navigated the stairs without falling down them, there was another corridor to trudge down to where he presumed the kitchen was, based on the tread pattern and normal layout of this style of accommodation.  As he rounded the corner, he called out, “Is this house compensation for something brother m-”

And there he was.  In a conservatory, with sunlight surrounding him in a cosy glow.

“John.”

John.  His John.  Just sat in an armchair.  He was holding a cup of tea in one hand, a book in the other, relaxed and whole and decidedly not dead.  

The angel’s head shot up at the sound, startled at the sudden noise.  His mouth fell open slightly, mirroring Sherlock’s own surprise.  They stayed locked in their positions.  Sherlock couldn’t force himself to move, or blink, or breathe.  All he could do was look.  Look and wait and hope, hope ferociously that he wasn’t dreaming, that this was real and John was here and it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t...

And then John smiled. 

It was a small thing, just a little uplift of the lips but his eyes shone with emotion.  He set his book and tea down carefully on the side table and stood up.  Sherlock remained still, his entire body tense.  John took a cautious step forward, paused, and then, emboldened, took another.  Calm and steady, all the way across to the doorway where Sherlock was rooted.  As he walked, his smile grew, and although it was clear that he was trying to fight it, to stop from beaming, he was losing the battle.  He stood, barely a step away, rocking back on his heels, hands behind his back. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered.  His right hand rose up, ghosting over his jaw. 

“Hi,” John said.  He almost sounded cheeky.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock said, running his hand from jaw up to the base of his skull, tangling up in the hair at the nape of his neck.  He rested his forehead gently on John’s. 

“I know Lock.  I know,” John breathed, the endearment falling from his lips easily.  His hands lifted to mirror Sherlock’s, running across his cheeks and petting his hair.  It was a check as much as a comfort, confirming their presence to each other.  He kept up a refrain of “I know” and “It’s alright”, his voice shaky but calm.  Sherlock couldn’t work out why he was making shushing noises until he felt a whimper rise up in his own throat.  He clung on to John, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.  The only thing keeping him upright was John’s arms, an anchor in the storm of his own emotions.  He couldn’t say how long they stood there.  It could have been seconds, or minutes, or day, or months.  All he knew was that eventually his breathing levelled out and he could finally take in the solid weight of John against him in a way that didn’t make him want to sob violently.  It was this awareness that led him to realise he had partially collapsed into John which, although comforting, also meant he was clinging on very tightly.  

“Sorry,” he said croakily, backing up a bit.  John let him go reluctantly, dragging his hands over Sherlock’s arms and holding onto his hands. 

“No need.”  John’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.  

“I love you.”

He hadn’t meant to say it.

If he found John, he was going to say a plethora of things: that he was happy he was alive, that the world was better with him in it, that everything was going to be okay, that Sherlock would make sure everything would be okay.  But never, ever was he going to mention the feeling that had spread across his chest, into his fingers and down to his toes, filling him up with a sense of safety and giddiness and brightness. 

That he was going to keep deliberately _unsaid_. 

But now he’d said it.

Shit. 

John was staring at him, mouth agape, completely shocked.  His hands had slipped from Sherlock’s.

Shit shit shit shit. 

Backtrack.  BACKTRACK.  His mind screamed at him to come up with something, anything to get them out of this situation.

“Errr I mean, I um, _you_ I.”  The worlds tumbled out incomprehensible.  Because he didn’t want to take them back, not really, but if he didn’t something terrible might happen, like John might voluntarily leave and that cannot be allowed to happen, not when he’d just got him back and-

“I love you too,” John saved him. 

Sherlock stood blinking for several seconds.  “Really?”

John laughed at him.  “Yes really, you idiot,” he pushed his arm lightly.  “Thought I made it pretty obvious.”

“You never said.”

John shrugged.  “Well we hadn’t got there yet.  Bit busy.  I didn’t you weren’t interested anyway.”

“What gave you that idea?” Sherlock demanded. 

“You ran away after the club that night,” John said, defending himself. 

“Because we were drunk.”

“And?”

Sherlock pursed his lips for a second.  “I was concerned about the motivation for your actions,” he said haughtily.

“Meaning?”

“Lust in the moment is not equivalent to love John.”

“Oh for-” John titled his face up, while dragging Sherlock’s head down to push their lips together.  For all the movement was demanding, his lips were soft and gentle, allowing him to move if he wanted to.  He froze for half a second, surprised, and then pressed back hesitantly.  He was hyper aware of every sensation, the sound of their breath and lips sliding, the flutter of eyelashes and press of noses, chastely holding hands but clinging on to each tightly.  Then John titled his head slightly, deepening the kiss.  Sherlock gasped and the whined as John pulled away first.  “I loved you then, I think, looking back on it,” he said.  “But I know I love you now, definitely.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to remember what they were speaking about.  He wanted to say that he knew this and believed as much as John obviously did.  That this was a fact rather than an opinion.  And yet-

“Why?”

“Why what?”  John pulled them into the conservatory, to sit on a sofa tucked just to the right of the doorway.  It was covered in an appalling old-fashioned floral pattern and Sherlock had to wonder who had overseen the interior design.  John re-caught his attention, turning to face him, left hand propped up on the back to rest his head on, the right still holding onto Sherlock’s. 

“Why do you love me?” Sherlock said.  “How can you know for definite that you do?”

John looked at him for a moment before saying, “Time works slightly differently down here than up there.”  It was not what Sherlock was expecting.

“What do you mean?”

“For me, it feels like I’ve been here about two months? Ish?” John seemed surprisingly fine with this information. “So I’ve had a lot of time to think, about a lot of stuff.  To think about what I was missing.  So I thought about us.  How, before I met you, I was just bored with _everything_.  Life was so fucking dull and then you storm in with your stolen arm-”

“I didn’t steal it,” Sherlock protested.

“Never said you did.”

“You implied it though.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” John said with an affectionate eye-roll.  “You barrelled into my life and you changed everything, in one go.  No caution or hesitation or holding back.  And, I don’t know, I guess I’d been waiting for someone to take that leap with me.  For me.  I owe you everything Sherlock and I’ll never stop being grateful for that.”

“I could have got you killed.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I _could_ have.  The potential was still there.”  The knot of worry that he had become so accustomed to ignoring squeezed his chest.  He had known John was in trouble and what had he done, really, to prevent it?  How could John say he loved someone who would do that to him?

“Sherlock, who decided to be there?  Who chose to follow you into that danger?  I did.  I chose that because it was a million times more interesting to me to spend time with you than it was to be safe and normal and quiet.  I get to decide what I do and where I go and I chose you.  Every time.”

Sherlock abruptly changed track again.  “Owing people something doesn’t mean you love them.”

“What?” John frowned as he tried to keep up with Sherlock’s racing thoughts.  To his credit, he was doing fairly well so far. 

“You said you owe everything to me.  Your affection shouldn’t be the price for that.  I don’t want you to feel obligated to love me.”

“I don’t feel obligated to.  My _affection_ , as you call it, is because I think you’re wonderful.” He said it as if it was obvious.  I think you’re intelligent and funny and beautiful.  You make life an adventure and you make me so angry sometimes and you _always_ do what you think is right.  Not necessarily what’s nicest or most appropriate, but you do what you think is for the best and I love you for it.  And you might not believe me right now.  But I’ll believe for the both of us.”

He was right, Sherlock thought, he didn’t know if he could entirely believe him right now, but he wanted to, oh how he wanted to, and for now that was enough.  “If I had known you were trapped at my brother’s house I would have found a way to get to you sooner.”

“Yeah, when were you going to tell me the creepy guy on the phone threatening me was your brother giving me the ‘don’t hurt him or you have to deal with me’ conversation?” John teased.

“Whenever it became relevant,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

“So never then?”

“It might never be relevant!”

“But he’s your brother.”

“That’s terrible reasoning John,” Sherlock said.

“Okay, because he’s your brother, and because he called me cryptically to question me about our relationship the day we met, and because I thought he was part of the investigation this whole time, and because it’s the sort of thing a person might want to share with another person they’re living with.  Are any of those good reasons to tell someone about your relatives?”  It wasn’t fair that John had time to plan his attack so Sherlock tried to switch subjects. 

“Ugh, why are we talking about him anyway?”

“You brought him up!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mirrored John’s pose on the sofa.  The sun once again surrounded John with an ethereal glow, highlighting his soft, blonde hair, and his deep blue eyes and the not-terrible jumper he was wearing.  He looked beautiful.  Sherlock leaned over to kiss him again, just because he could, and the thought that he was allowed to thrilled him. 

Talking was overrated anyway. 

There was a polite cough from the doorway.  Sherlock would have been happy to ignore it but John pulled back reluctantly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s nose first.  He looked towards the door, a faux-polite smile on his lips. 

“Can we help you?” he said. 

Mycroft was stood in the doorway, with a face that was part-way between a smile and sucking a lemon.  “As pleased as I am that you are... re-acquainted, shall we say, I do require your attention.”

Sherlock said, slumping onto the sofa and resting his side to John’s.  He fought a smug smile when John ran a hand up his spine and rested it at the nape of his neck.  “Piss off Mycroft,” he huffed, for the second time that day.  His scowl turned into a glower when Mycroft, instead of taking the hint, came and sat in the adjacent chair. 

“It is perhaps unwise to be so abrupt to the person that has been hosting your beau.” 

John cough to stifle a laugh at the word ‘beau’ while Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Yes, I’m very grateful you didn’t turf him out into the street.  So generous of you to keep quiet about it and just assume I would come and find him.” 

“I think that’s his way of saying Thank You,” John said fondly. 

Mycroft nodded.  “Luckily I am well versed in Sherlock and can translate easily.  As for not contacting you with news of John’s arrival, contact with the Above world became rather difficult.”

“There was a slight infestation of Fallen to deal with Mycroft.  I’m sure someone of your standing has more than one way of relaying a message.”

John tensed next to him at the mention of the Above and squeezed his nape once.  “I’m hoping that fact that your here means that’s sorted?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Of course.  I left Lestrade with all he needs for a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Yes, and I’m sure the information from young George had very little to do with this.”

“George?” John asked. 

“Raz,” Sherlock said with a pout. 

“Raz?”

“Yes.”

“Raz’s name is _George_?”

Sherlock side-eyed John.  “Did you think Raz was his given name?”

“No.  I just-  I’m going to need a minute,” John muttered, looking unsettled. 

Sherlock returned to glaring at Mycroft.  “I’m assuming John was the matter you were alluding to earlier?” 

“Indeed.”

“Because telling me would be too easy.”

“Allow me a little drama Sherlock.  You always were fond of it.”

“And you’re here now because?”

Mycroft tilted his head to the side.  “I understand you have been through quite the ordeal, but I didn’t think I would have to remind you that this is my house.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to lunge across the room and throttle him.  “I meant in the conservatory specifically.  Obviously.”

“Ah.  Well with the current state of governance in the Above in a less than ideal state, I will be returning to oversee matters personally.  You will, of course, be welcome to stay here but I have a feeling you would rather lay down roots elsewhere.  Options can be arranged as soon as you are feeling better Sherlock, although you appear to have made a startling recovery already,” he said, pointedly.

Sherlock fought the urge to stick his tongue out.  “John is an excellent medic.  And we will be returning to the Above with you, so I’m sure we can suffer your presence for a few days.”

The room went very still.  Mycroft looked at John.  “You had not mentioned?”

John replied tightly.  “We had literally 5 minutes to ourselves Mycroft and there were other concerns.”

“I understand that confessing your affection for one another was a priority-.”

“What is with you Holmes’s and the word affection?  Is it 1912?”

Mycroft pretended not to hear. “ _However_ , this is also an important discussion, is it not?”

“And one we would have got round to,” John insisted.

Sherlock snapped.  “When you are both finished, would someone care to explain?”

Mycroft and John seemed to stay locked in a silent argument for another moment.  However, John was the one who relented, slumping back into the sofa.  He also removed his arm from round Sherlock’s back which was inexcusable. 

“I can’t go back to the Above.”

Sherlock frowned and sat up.  “What?”

“I can’t go back,” John repeated softly. 

“John if this is about Moriarty, I think stopping a psychopath from world domination is a fine excuse for killing him.”  

John almost smiled again.  “That’s not it, and I don’t know whether it is sweet you would defend me from a murder charge or worrying you had that ready to go.”  He paused, mouth twisting back into a frown.  He addressed his hands rather than looking at Sherlock.  “The actual problem is the lack of wings and the fact I don’t have my powers anymore.  Something about the jump, it means I’m not an angel anymore.  And if you’re not an angel, you can’t go back through the portal.”

Sherlock kept quiet as John spoke.  There had to be a work-around, he just had to think of it.  Unfortunately, Mycroft saw this and quietly interjected.  “The only way for a human to get into the Above is the traditional method.”  John deliberately trained his gaze out of the large windows.  Sherlock couldn’t see his expression and so couldn’t correctly work-out what he was thinking which meant he couldn’t solve this before it spiralled out of control.  His brother was not helping. 

“Mycroft get out.” 

His brother looked offended.  “I-”

“I need to speak to John.  _Privately_.”

Mycroft looked between them, nodded once, and got up.  Once he was out of the room, John stood up and started pacing, rubbing the back of his neck.  Sherlock fought down a smile.  Angel or not, his nervous habits were still the same. 

“John.”

“I’m sorry,” John said before he could say more. 

“Why?”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold. 

“Oh,” was all he could manage to say.  Well that was short-lived.  And he’d said such sweet things.  Foolish to believe him really.  He stood, intending to run and hide somewhere in the house. 

John turned and looked at him.  It was only then that he registered what he had said and back-tracked.  “No, no, no.  Sherlock.”  John caught his arm as he tried to move.  “ _Sherlock_.”

“What?” he snapped.

“I didn’t mean it like that.  You know I didn’t.”

“How do I know?”

“Because I’ve just spent ten minutes talking about how much I love you, that’s why,” John said, frustration bleeding through.  “What I meant is that I shouldn’t have kissed you without explaining properly.  About the wings situation.  It’s just-”  He struggled for a moment and looked out, towards the lush garden.  “When you said I love you, I just wanted to pretend for a bit.”

“Pretend what?” 

John shrugged, crossing his arms across his chest.  He spoke to his shoes.  “That it could work out.”

“You think it can’t work out?”

“Well of course it can’t.”

“Why not?” Sherlock pushed. 

John looked up at him.  “Sherlock, you have to go back.  Your entire life’s up there.”

“Incorrect.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re down here.  Therefore, my entire life is not up there.” 

John did smile then, a small, sad thing but still a smile.  “But your work.”

“Can easily be found here.  My brother inevitably knows people.  Also, if there’s one thing I am certain of it is that people can find endlessly creative ways of killing each other.  Should keep me entertained.”

John rolled his eyes. “You say that like it’s a goo thing.”

Sherlock smiled slightly and gambled taking John’s hand.  Gratifyingly, John didn’t pull away, but continued to look at Sherlock forlornly, as if he was going to disappear any moment.  “I don’t want to go back without you,” he said.

“And I don’t want you to make a hasty decision that you’ll end up regretting.” 

Sherlock nodded in agreement.  However, he already had his answer.  He’d had his answer since the moment the issue was presented to him. 

“Sensible.  But, more importantly, I would rather be trapped down here with you than spend eternity up there without you.” 

Because he had lived in the Above with John and lived without him.  The biggest puzzle known to the afterlife, tracking several Fallen with hidden identities and no moral compasses, had been presented to him on a silver platter and instead of leaping at the chance, all he wanted to do was leave and find John. 

“I can’t ask that of you,” John said, shaking his head. 

“I’m not asking you to.  In fact, the decision has already been made.”  John looked like he was going to argue again when Sherlock played his closing card.  “You said you made a decision to follow me.  Now I’m making the same choice back.”  He paused, looking away, before guiltily adding, “Also, and not that this makes a huge difference to my choice, bu it appears my wings are also gone.  A side-effect of being a former Fallen according to Mycroft.  So odds are I cannot return either.”

John closed his eyes.  “And he didn’t think to mention this to me?” he said quietly. 

Sherlock shrugged.  “Apparently not.”

“What a _dick_.”  John looked two seconds away from storming out the room and punching the older angel in the face.  As much as Sherlock wanted to see that however and as happy as he was for dodging the blame, he wanted to keep John to himself for a few moments before his brother inevitably came to split them up again. 

“Yes, he is.  Has been the entire time I’ve known him.  And the wings, they don’t change any of what I said.  I would still choose to be here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, bashfully smiling at his feet, before glancing up at Sherlock.  “You sure you can put up with me?”

“I believe it should be me asking that question.”

John released his hand from Sherlock’s grasp only to wrap them around his neck as he considered.  “I think we can give it a good go.”

“Such confidence,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“I seem to remember basically admitting that you were the best thing to happen in my life, so I think I’ve filled my quota of dramatic declarations for the day.”  John kept glancing at Sherlock’s lips, but he played dumb.

“Meaning they’ll be more tomorrow?” Sherlock said in mock-horror, with a hint of curiosity.  It would make sense that John would be a romantic.

“Only if you’re lucky,” John said, giving in and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.  It was sweet to begin with, more hesitant than their earlier desperation.  The adrenaline of seeing each other had worn off with his brother’s intrusion and the road-bump of the wings issue.  Now they were both fully aware of the choice they were making and neither seemed to want to push too far too soon, to ask for too much from the other.  In fact, it was oddly polite. 

It was this thought which made Sherlock laugh, difficult when one was kissing another person.  John leaned back, frowning. 

“Are you laughing?”

His scandalised tone only made Sherlock giggle more.  “Hysteria might be setting in,” he managed to stutter out. 

“Honestly,” John shook his head, fondly exasperated.

“You chose this,” Sherlock felt compelled to point out. 

“Yeah, I guess I did.”  John was smiling again and to Sherlock, that was the most important thing in the world.  There was more to sort out, so much more, like a house and a job and a life to build, and it wouldn’t always be easy, and they would fight, and bicker and he’d say the wrong thing, and his brother would interfere, and it wouldn’t always be perfect.  But it didn’t matter.  Because in this moment, this particular moment, everything _was_ perfect.  All that was important was the feel of John, alive and happy, in his arms, and the truth that he loved John and John, apparently, impossibly, loved him back. 

Golden light surrounded them, a warm, encompassing glow, as Sherlock kissed John again, deeper this time, wrapping him up in his arms.  The universe paused, the world stopped spinning, and all that existed was him and John, together, in the sunshine. 

All of the difficult parts could wait.  For now, this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you so much for reading.  
> So, a final question: do you want a vaguely smutty (still within the Mature rating) epilogue chapter? Or should I bump the rating down to Teen and we can leave the boys as they are? I'm really torn so all input would be greatly appreciated!


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is it. Epilogue done, fic finished. I cannot thank you all enough for reading so hopefully this last chapter stands as my thanks. A word of caution, I haven't really read through the ending properly so please do flag all the grammar and spelling errors that definitely await you and, as ever, I hope you enjoy this :)

It had been three months since their residency on Earth had become a permanent fixture and, considering everything, they felt it was going quite well.  They were both alive for one thing.  They had a roof over their head, food and water, they were _together_. 

However, being a human, Sherlock was finding, was incredibly, amazingly _dull_ sometimes. 

Sherlock had interacted with humans before, knew about their habits and needs _theoretically_ and so the transition to being human _practically_ should have been easy. 

So far this was turning out to be a naive assumption. 

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the chance to experience things as humans did, as this would surely be useful with cases, and he had a number of experiments that he was eager to try.  However, the problem was that he never seemed to have time for experiments because of the demands of his humanity.  Breathing, eating, sleeping, walking.  There was a constant list of jobs and expectations and requirements.  It wasn’t that these were difficult tasks individually, but collectively they were _constant_. 

Mycroft had made good on his promise to help (even when his brother was less than polite about it) and had ensured they had a flat and legal documents and various other bits and pieces which would mean they could get on with life without being questioned on their miraculous appearance in the land of the living.  It turned out there was not an easy way to explain that there was an afterlife, and even harder to explain that you did the equivalent of accidently locking yourself out of it.  Mycroft had even provided Sherlock a contact within New Scotland Yard, although D.I. Dimmock was as about as happy working with Sherlock as Sherlock was working with him.  But Sherlock hadn’t been arrested yet and Dimmock remained un-murdered so all was well for the time being. 

As for their flat, it was no Baker Street and Sherlock was already mentally plotting how to get them onto Baker Street once more, but it was functional and warm and most importantly, had John in it. 

John who had taken to these practicalities like an angel to flying, flaunting his ability to fit in to the mundanities of humanity with ease.  He wasn’t jealous.  Jealousy was too strong an emotion to be feeling over someone’s ability to have a functioning sleep pattern, instead of veering wildly between sleeping an hour every three days to needing sleeping fourteen over an afternoon. 

However, John was also the root cause of another, more pressing human concern and it was _infuriating_.  Something that could not be ignored and pushed to the side. 

It had come to his attention when they had _finally_ moved out of Mycroft’s house.  This took a ridiculously long time (how difficult was it to fabricate documents for two adult males?) and while sharing a house with his brother, him and John found it difficult to find any time alone.  _Alone_ , alone.  Despite the house being roughly the size of a football pitch, it seemed every time Sherlock moved within two feet of John, one of his brother’s minions would magically appear needing a signature or to clarify a detail or _just to get in the fucking way when he was trying to kiss his boyfriend._ They didn’t even share a bedroom and late night sneaking was deterred when they discovered his brother worked through the night and therefore there were still people wandering the halls.  Nothing to kill a mood more than a polite “Is there anything I can get for you sir?”

To say Sherlock was frustrated was an understatement.  John, on the surface, appeared to be fairing better, smiling politely, answering questions, and generally trying to stop Sherlock from glaring/ stabbing the person interrupting. 

However, Sherlock knew this lack of privacy was getting to him. 

There was a fleeting, brilliant moment about two weeks in, when Sherlock was searching for John.  Sherlock was always searching for John, because he was constantly having to interact with his brother, and this meant he required attention before Mycroft was set on fire for being an annoying git.  Luckily, John was in his room, sat reading some presumably boring document on his bed, and Sherlock threw himself dramatically next to him, curling up into John, head resting on his chest. 

“Hey you,” John said, eyes not leaving the page but a hand running up to ruffle Sherlock’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.  For a moment Sherlock let himself soak up the sweetness of it.  However, as John continued to only partially pay attention to him, it was time for some more direct action.  He began by slowly moving his hand across John’s stomach, ostensibly to cuddle closer.  Then, he moved his hand up and down John’s side, rubbing his head slightly.

“Sherlock,” John said, trying to be a warning but Sherlock could tell he was smiling. 

“Hmm?” he said innocently.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

Instead of replying, John huffed a mock-sigh and there was a thud as the papers hit the floor.  Excellent progress so far.  Sherlock titled his head up, fighting against the urge to smile.  This was a lost cause as soon as John kissed him though.  Sweet victory. 

John pulled back for a second.  “You’re a menace, you know that?” 

Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a reply. 

The kiss was perfect (all of John’s kisses were perfect) but the angle was not.  Kissing your boyfriend should not require physiotherapy after for neck strain.  John gently nudged Sherlock until he was on his back and then a thrill ran up Sherlock’s spine as John straddled his waist.  He gasped as the kiss deepened and he knotted his fingers into sandy blonde hair, pushing up into the solid weight of him.  Without breaking the kiss, John pulled Sherlock’s shirt tails out of his trousers and snaked a hand under to caress his chest and abdomen.  The sensation of the soft touches mixed with the bruising force of the kiss was heady and electrifying, a complete relinquishing of control.  John gripped his waist and moved down to bite kisses onto Sherlock’s neck and fuck that felt good and…

There was a knock on the door.  For a split second, both considered ignoring it.  If they were quiet enough, maybe the person would take the hint and leave.  Maybe-

 _Knock knock knock_. 

“Fuck,” John growled, forehead rest on Sherlock’s chest, before shouting towards the door “Be there in a minute.  Later,” he said, desperately to Sherlock. 

Sherlock reluctantly pouted but agreed.  “Later.”

Of course, later never appeared because they were in a hell-house designed to torture him by being close to John without being able to actually _get close_ to John.  There was more than one occasion that Sherlock considered he had been obliterated and was now experiencing a circle of hell. 

So, when they finally, _finally_ , moved out of Mycroft’s house, Sherlock was absolutely beside himself with delight and thought all issues had been resolved, or would soon be resolved at any road). 

He was not normally so naïve but love was causing him to swing more to unbridled optimism. 

First, he had a rather interesting case which meant that on the day they moved in to their new flat, he was six miles away chasing a chinchilla down a residential road and trying to figure out how to explain this to John in a way that didn’t make him look ridiculous.  (John did think it was ridiculous an couldn’t look at him for several days without giggling uncontrollably). 

 _And then_ , John started his medical studies to become qualified as a Doctor because apparently one could not just say they already had several years experience on the frontlines of the biggest war known in the cosmos because “they won’t believe me Sherlock, now go away and stop distracting me.”  This meant that any moment John was not helping Sherlock on cases or filling his time with human concerns like shopping or laundry, was dominated with pouring over textbooks and muttering processes under his breath. 

 _And then_ their new landlady was nosier than Mrs Hudson and kept flittering about the flat at the most inopportune times, and yes it was lovely she was helping keep the space clean but John had a day free and there were no cases and please for the love of everything, woman, take the hint. 

To put it bluntly, it had been three months since they’d found themselves permanently in the land of the living and if Sherlock Holmes didn’t get into John Watson’s pants he was going to spontaneously combust. 

Sherlock had to plan.  It was the only way this was going to happen.  Saturday was chosen as the optimal day and one-by-one, he eliminated the distractions. 

  * He managed to get John to agree that he would take an evening off, which was surprisingly easy. It may have had something to do with the fact Sherlock had crawled into his lap and asked while pouting dramatically, arguing that he could study during the day and then spend the evening with each other. 
  * The landlady was sent away on a lovely holiday to see her baby granddaughter (“It’s the least we could do for helping us”). Her baby granddaughter who just happened to live in Devon. 
  * Sherlock shocked everyone in New Scotland Yard by sending a text to Dimmock telling him in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t be disturbed today. He didn’t quite turn his phone off before seeing the snarky reply of “I’m sure we’ll struggle on without you” and it was only for the briefest time that he worried the entire city could fall in his absence.  It would be worth it though.  _By god it would be worth it_. 



As a precaution he also disconnected the doorbell and the TV and hid John’s phone.  Short-turn annoyance would be over-taken by long-term gain.  He hoped.

Now all he had to do was seduce John, who would be back home in about twenty minutes.  Easy.  John loved him.  He loved John.  John wanted this.  He wanted this.  Easy.  Yep yep yep.  Nervous?  Him?  No.

He started sat in his chair.  Casual worked, right?  But maybe too casual.  Sofa?  He’d noticed John’s eyes roving over him while he’d been lounging, sleep shirt riding up to expose his stomach.  However, when he tried to lie down, somehow he couldn’t find a comfy position, the pillows weirdly lumpy, his t-shirt twisting strangely, and nope, this wouldn’t do.  He stalked to the kitchen to bash some equipment around in annoyance.  This was ridiculous.  _He_ was being ridiculous.  He paced back, dragging a hand over the violin Mycroft had given him as a parting reminder of the debt he was owed (John tried to say it was a gift, his sweet, naive beloved, but Sherlock knew the truth).  This was not the sort of nervous energy that would be dispersed by playing, so he kept stalking back and forth, back and forth, until something caught his eye.  He turned, startled. 

John was stood in the doorway, watching him with amusement.  “You okay there my love?”  Sherlock tried not to melt at the pet name.  He was not the sort of person that liked pet names. 

“Fine,” he snapped.  John frowned slightly.  Shit.  He shook his head and ruffled his hair.  “Fine, just thinking through something.”

“Yeah?” John said, shrugging off his jacket and walking forward to run his hands over Sherlock’s arms up to his shoulders. 

Soothed, Sherlock smiled.  “Yeah.  Nothing important.”  John was still frowning slightly, a small wrinkle in between his eyebrows and that was not allowed.  Sherlock placed his hands on John’s waist and leaned down to kiss him lightly. 

“Okay, good.  Now why have you hid my phone?” John asked, moving to wrap his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders and locking at the back of his neck.  Trapped. 

“I haven’t hid your phone,” Sherlock said, a touch too quickly. 

John tilted his head.  “Well I left it on the side to charge and now it’s not there so either you’ve hidden it or we’ve got a very inventive burglar on our hands.”

“I shouldn’t have started teaching you to observe,” Sherlock muttered. 

“You’re stuck with me now.  Maybe one day I’ll be able to do that mind-reading thing you do and I won’t have to ask these questions.”

“It’s not mind-reading John,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“And that’s not an answer to my question.”

“I-” Sherlock started boldly before panicking.  He aimed the rest of his speech at John’s chest.  “I just wanted to spend time with you.”  That was not what he wanted to say.  This was not seducing, this was...vulnerability.  It made him want to wriggle out of John’s arms and run.  He could feel a hand move to cup his face. 

“Hey, look at me,” John said softly.  He reluctantly dragged his eyes up to see John smiling at him.  “I want to spend time with you too.  I already agreed to the evening, you don’t need to hold me hostage as well,” he said teasingly. 

Sherlock pouted.  Suddenly all the nervous anticipation had seeped out of him and all he really wanted to do was snog his boyfriend and have a cup of tea.  He might even be tempted to watch a film.  “Well this way I know I have your full attention.”

“You always have my full attention,” John said seriously and Sherlock felt his chest tighten.  There was no other way to respond but to kiss him, softly and sweetly, trying to communicate what words suddenly felt inadequate for.  John seemed to understand, pulling him closer so they were pressed against each other.  Sherlock gasped slightly, gripping John’s hips tighter in surprise, and John took the opportunity to swipe his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.  In retaliation, Sherlock reciprocated by allowing his hands to roam, eventually pushing his hands into the back pockets of John’s jeans to drag him closer.  This was not physically possible but like hell that would stop him from trying. 

John pulled back reluctantly, leaning back in to press small biting kisses.  “Come on,” John said eventually, pulling him towards their bedroom.  On the one hand, it was the fantastic news he’d been waiting to hear.  On the other, it involved letting John go in order to move.  As a compromise, Sherlock took the lead to drag John past the door and to press him up against the wall.  He kept him pinned using his natural height as an advantage, locking hands and raising them above John’s head.  The kiss was wild, the frustration finally finding an outlet through tongues and lips and teeth.  Sherlock was so distracted in fact that he didn’t realise John was only humouring him.  This was brought to his attention when John deliberately rocked his hips forward, causing Sherlock’s grip to falter as the sensation shot through him and he eagerly pressed back, only to find himself pushed backwards to hit the edge of the bed.  John laughed as shock turned to pouting as Sherlock found himself not attached to his boyfriend. 

“Sit down,” John ordered and Sherlock found himself obeying without conscious thought.  The authoritative tone was new and judging by the smug look on John’s face as he wandered over, had the desired effect.  “There you go gorgeous,” he said, titling Sherlock’s face so he could kiss him deeply, hands sliding up into his hair.  Pre-occupied, Sherlock let his legs be nudged wider so John could stand between them and he moaned a little at the feeling.  John gripped his hair tighter at the noise, creating a feedback loop of pleasure that Sherlock lost himself in.  All he could do was grip John’s hips and hold on.  John broke away, swearing.  “Shirt off?” he said, dragging his fingers down Sherlock’s collarbone.  Sherlock nodded so rapidly he nearly headbutted John which, although showed enthusiasm, may not have been the sexiest thing he’d ever done.  John tried not to look amused.  “Go on then,” he said, taking a step backwards to pull his jumper and shirt off.  Sherlock tried to copy but was scuppered by buttons, uncooperative fingers, and the fact that John had leant back in to gently kiss his neck.  At some point, Sherlock admitted defeat.  He couldn’t be expected to do anything when there was a partially naked John Watson between his legs. 

“You need a hand gorgeous?” 

There was a lot Sherlock could say to that.  _God yes please oh yes yes yes_ was one.  His hips shifted restlessly and John, perfect John, rested his knee on the bed, providing Sherlock with ample thigh to rub up against while he sorted the button issue.  Sherlock’s hands scrunched into the bed sheets at the pressure.  His shirt was removed and thrown into the corner of the room.  He was about to protest (it was quite a nice shirt) but John interrupted with a kiss. 

“It’s going to be fine.”

“It better be.”  May have had more weight if he wasn’t panting. 

“Promise,” John said, kissing him sweetly once more, before moving down to his chest, peppering kisses down Sherlock’s body before nuzzling into his stomach, just above the waistband of his trousers.  He hesitated, glancing up with one hand hovering at the first button.  Sherlock nodded. 

“Please,” he said, eyes locked onto John’s. 

He didn’t need to be told twice.  Sherlock tilted his hips up and suddenly he was left wearing nothing at all.  His breath caught in his throat at being so exposed and he ducked his head, fairly certain it was more a blush lighting up his cheeks rather than a flush of pleasure.  It was ridiculous to be shy.  He _wanted_ this. 

“Hey,” John said, squeezing his knee.  “You alright?”  

“Yes,” he said, because he _was_.  He was. 

“Look at me.”  He looked.  It was quite the sight, John kneeling in front of him.  All except for the small frown on his face.  “We can stop, if it’s too much or you don’t want to or-”

“Don’t you dare.”  He had not gone through several elaborate shenanigans, only to be stopped now.  “It’s just-  Well I’ve never-”  John’s eyes lit up with understanding.  Now he was thinking about it, he probably should have mentioned this earlier. 

“Slowly then?” John said, turning to smudge a kiss on the knee he was holding.  Sherlock nodded, planting his feet more firmly on the ground.  John started by dragging his hands up his thighs, and then back down.  “Alright then.”  John pushed up to kiss him, teasingly running his tongue over his bottom lip.  When Sherlock had finally relaxed, sinking down into the kiss, he moved back.  He copied his earlier movements, kissing down Sherlock’s chest, but much slower this time, more deliberately, giving Sherlock time to adjust if he wanted. 

Sherlock groaned before ending on a whine as John left teasing touches on his thighs, brushing past but never actually touching him. 

“Wanted this.  Wanted you so fucking bad Lock.”

“Wanted you too,” he managed to gasp back.  “Just fucking touch me.”

And, by some miracle, John actually listened.  A hand caressed him and his head fell back.  As John’s mouth touched him, a guttural moan ripped out his throat.  The hand John had left on his thigh squeezed in response.  His feet arched and his toes scrunched into the carpet.  The feeling was like a pulsing coursing throughout his body, the epicentre thrumming in his stomach.  His focus was narrowed down to the points where his body met John’s.  Experimentally, he rolled his hips, just slightly further into the wet heat of John’s mouth.  John inhaled sharply and then moaned, sinking down further, and _fuck_.  His breathing became erratic, each one escaping with a whine or a gasp, and the feeling in his stomach grew tighter, and tighter, and tighter.  His toes scrunched in the carpet and hands fisted in the sheets as he tried to keep control, but it felt like he was being wound up and up, his stomach clenching and then-

 _Fuck_. 

The sensation rolled over him, until it was all he could feel, except the noise of John following him over the edge and at some point in the future when he could feel his limbs he was going to relive that noise over and over again until it was embedded into his mind, a part of him forever. 

His head dropped forward, chest heaving, before rolling his neck to stare at the ceiling.  The only thing he could focus on was trying to breathe normally, and then on the feeling of John’s hands stroking up and down his thighs. 

“You okay there gorgeous?”  Sherlock shivered at John’s hoarse voice.  He’d done that.  They’d done that.  Together. 

He lolled his head to the side.  There was no other word for it.  John looked smug as hell.  All-out 100% blissfully fucking smug. 

He smiled.  “Never better,” he said, lying down and sprawling across the bed.  John laughed and Sherlock closed his eyes to file away the sound, the nuances of it.  He loved him.  Really, truly loved him.  The weight of the bed shifted, and a hand ran across his chest as John snuggled in.  He twisted to tangle his legs with John’s and grabbed the blanket from the bottom of the bed. 

“Hey,” Sherlock said, pressing a small kiss to John’s lips and forehead.  He suddenly felt exhausted. 

“Hi,” John replied. 

He felt his eyes fluttering closed, but he fought it.  “You okay?” he asked. 

John tried not to look amused.  “Perfect gorgeous.  Just perfect.”  He returned the kiss on the forehead.  “Sleep now sweetheart.  I’ll be right here.”

As he drifted off, John’s hands stroking his back, he felt that there might be some advantages to accidental humanity.  After all, every demonic cloud has to have a beautiful, charming, blonde-haired silver lining. 


End file.
